


& That's For All Time

by tossertozier (rednoseredhair)



Series: &tfat!verse [2]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: AU, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, It's an alternate universe, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Renaissance Faire, Slurs, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, You just wait, bc i missed that so much, but they all love him, everyone hates richie, fuckers, i'd like to call characters here a healthy mix of book and movie characters, is now, is that a tag?, rich and bill r bffs, same, same with rich and bev, you think you've read slow burns before, you wait
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-01-15 07:45:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 126,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12316803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednoseredhair/pseuds/tossertozier
Summary: It's the summer before college, and Richie Tozier is prepared for approximately nothing to change. The club works at a Renaissance Faire, and somehow in between the turkey legs, marathons of Super Smash brothers and cheap beer, some of them have time to fall in love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N  
> hey demons what up, its me, ya boy.  
> welcome to my fic where the gang met at a renaissance faire and now they work there the summer before everyone goes to college wHY u may ask IDK no ONE ASKED FOR THIS
> 
> it's 2017 and clowns never happened and nobodys dead!

Eddie, willed by God, or some other power, probably, could not be on time to save his fucking life. He never could pin-point exactly what happened, or where he went wrong, but by the time he kissed his mother and flew out the door, he was at least five minutes late.

And now, he was power-walking to Bill’s house in annoying June morning heat, feeling the back of his shirt stick to his skin, praying Richie distracted Stan long enough so Stan didn’t leave him behind.

It wasn’t so much that Stan detested being late. It was more-so that Stan just wasn’t late.

Ever.

And that was how he found himself praying for the help of Richie Tozier, may God have mercy on his soul. Especially when he walked up and saw no sign of Stan’s car or Stan.

“Good morning, Eddie,” he heard as he flung open the porch door to the Denbrough house. Mrs. D., hair pinned out of her face carefully, age much kinder to her than it had been to Eddie’s mother, had to have known it was him. Stan always rang the bell. Always. They had been friends for ten years, and he always rang the goddamned bell.

“Morning, Mrs. D.” He stopped rushing, pausing at the edge of her kitchen table. “They didn’t…?”

“No,” she smiled at him. “Stan hasn’t come round yet.” Eddie wrinkled his nose, that was odd. They left at 7:37 for the Faire, every year since they started working there, without fail. It was 7:35. “Juice?”

He motioned to say no, but when Mrs. D raised her eyebrows at him, he realized that he did, in fact, want juice, and chastised himself inwardly because he always seemed to say no when offered anything for literally no reason. Maybe it was a sign of anxiety, but it was seven a.m. which was too damn early to get introspective like that.

“You might want to check on the boys,” the juice was sweet but not overtly so, orange with mango? Maybe? All of those fruits began to blend together in Eddie’s mind after some point in time. “I haven’t heard a sign of life from them.”

Eddie’s eyes went large, and he nodded, running, carefully with the juice, up the Denbrough stairs.

He banged into Bill’s room, looking around for sleeping morons, but, with despair, found none. “Jesus Christ, guys.” He moaned. He set his now empty cup on Bill’s nightstand. He shot one last dirty look at Bill's neatly made bed, darting back into the hall quickly.

He, with a groan and irritation, yanked down the cord in the center of the hallway noisily.

Bill and Richie had, of course, slept in what Richie loved to call his bedroom.

Every sane person on the planet would call it what it was: an attic.

“GET UP, ASSHOLES,” Eddie yelled as he climbed the ladder. There was a thump above him as he stomped up, which was more than likely Richie falling off of something or other.

It was ironic that it was one of Eddie’s least favorite places in the world, as he was the only one of the three people occupying it that could stand to his full height comfortably in the weird space. The room sort of felt like a pre-teen lumberjack and a grandmother had decided to become roommates and bought all of their living room furniture at Goodwill. Everything was wooden, and the room was a triangular shape. In one corner were Mrs. D.’s things, seasonal decorations and a box with her wedding dress. In the center, was this ugly, floral couch, that Richie had shoved up there, by himself, when the Denbroughs planned to get rid of it when they were replacing their living room.

Within their friend group, it had become somewhat an urban legend. No one knew exactly how he did it. The Denbroughs left for a school recital, and came back and their couch was gone, and Richie was sitting on the floor in it’s place. “Hey, guys.” He had allegedly said, shoving a spoon of cereal in his mouth, “we’re out of frosted flakes.”

The couch, with just a hair’s breadth of room, folded out into a full size bed, the edge of the bed just barely touching the t.v. stand with old gaming systems plugged in. A game cube, an N-64, and the original X-Box were all plugged in. That was a project of both Bill and Richie’s, and Bill said it was pain-staking, and exhausting, to drag all that shit up there. That only added more mystery to the couch story. The walls were covered in ecclectic and some frankly weird posters, for things either Richie liked or at least was very good at pretending to, and the odd note or photograph. Eddie's personal favorite, not that he'd admit to having one, was the poster for the weird live action Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie, that Eddie found in a dumpster on the last day of Sophomore year. 

“GET UP!” Eddie hated his somewhat screech-y yelling voice, but whipped it out anyway, flicking on the switch that turned on the string lights Richie had ran throughout the attic. “STAN IS GOING TO SKIN US ALL ALIVE, AND WILL FASHION US INTO SOME, PROBABLY SMART, METICULOUSLY DONE, COATS.”

It was actually Bill who had fallen out of the pull-out couch, still wrapped in a Lizzie McGuire themed blanket, amisdt the empty bags of chips and boxes of cereal and soda cans. The room was fucking disgusting. “I d-don’t want to be a coat,” he yawned, but grinned sleepily up at Eddie, like he had no intention of moving any faster than he was. Which was, approximately, the speed of a turtle with Lyme's disease.

“WELL THEN GET UP, YOU LAZY SON OF A-”

“Shhh,” a voice came from the pull-out couch, a hand coming over the back of it which would have been eerie had Eddie not known the hand so well. It could reach out and grab his wrist, that’s how small the space was. “Eds,” Richie whined, tugging him towards the couch, “you seem grouchy. Come sleep for a little while.”

“I’m not getting in that bed with you, you cretin.” Eddie said plainly. “And don’t call me that.”

Bill snorted from his spot on the floor, but stretched his hands above his head with a grin, a sign he was up, and about to get dressed. Eddie had been so busy watching it he failed to realize he was still getting relentlessly tugged towards the bed by Richie.

“RICHIE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD,” he yelled as Richie came into sight, grabbing his other wrist with his hand. Eddie wiggled backwards, “I WILL LEAVE YOU HERE,” Richie was nowhere near being ready to go, seemingly shirtless, dark curls impossibly mussed, sleepy smile on his face, glasses nowhere in sight.

The tried and true sound of a broom banging on the floor rang throughout the attic.

“JUST BECAUSE YOU LOSERS,” there it was, Eddie was surprised it hadn’t come earlier. The lovely, tender voice of a thirteen year old brother, “DECIDE TO GET UP AT ASS-CRACK IN THE MORNING TO GO TO THE FAIRY FAIRE,” not George’s best work, “DOESN’T MEAN YOU-”

A muffled shout in the distance.

“MOM!” George screamed down, in the other direction, “THAT’S NOT FAIR! BILL AND HIS FRIENDS SWEAR all the time-” the voice got more distant as George, or Georgie, as Richie still insisted on calling him, stormed down the Denbrough stairs.

“There’s our boy, up and at ‘em.” Richie grinned into his pillow.

“Surprised he didn’t start earlier.” Bill mused from his spot on the floor as he changed into his jeans from yesterday. Eddie would have taken it upon himself to find that grosser, but he did know that they were gonna change into Faire clothes basically as soon as we got there. “Our Eddie-boy has cuh-cuh-quite the voice on him.” He grinned, making for the exit of the bedro- _attic_.

“Oh my god,” Richie finally sat up, stretching long arms over his head. “You know what we haven’t done lately?” He grinned at Eddie, reaching to unplug his phone from the stray extender they had under the bed. “Checked his musical.ly.”

Georgie Denbrough was now thirteen. He was cool, as cool as thirteen year olds came, and no longer thought Bill walked on water. In fact, he did just about everything in his power to avoid Bill and his friends, much to the bemusement of Richie. Cool thirteen year olds did this incredibly bizarre thing lately where they had this strange app where they recorded themselves lip-syncing, and did strange camera patterns. Richie thought it might have been the funniest thing in the universe. Eddie thought it was funny too, but he couldn’t give Richie the satisfaction of knowing that.

“In the car,” Eddie whined, grabbing for Richie’s wrist.

Richie rolled his eyes, but stood up anyway, with a chorus of “okay, okay, fine.”

Richie, and everyone else in their gang, had grown to reasonable adult heights, and Eddie was an, extremely frustrating, 5’ 6”. Richie, having little choice in the cramped space, stood up toe to toe with Eddie, crouching down to be only a little taller than him, face very much in Eddie’s, dark hair hanging in his eyes.

“Good morning,” Richie greeted gently, soft smile spreading, eyes looking into his. Eddie felt his heart-beat speed up, traitorously, for only a moment.

“Your breath smells rancid.” Eddie replied flatly.

* * *

 

“Stan-O the Man-O,” Richie whistled as a pristine grey vehicle pulled up to the cub. “Never thought I’d see the day.” Stan looked irritated as he rolled down the window. Richie leaned lecherously into the passenger window, but didn’t get in. It was, as it always had been, Bill’s spot.

“Day when what?” Stan raised an eyebrow.

“You’re late,” Eddie checked his watch nervously. It was 8:01 a.m. He was almost more inclined to believe Stan, a human watch, over the little piece of technology on his wrist.

“No, I’m not.” Stan replied with an eyeroll, but clicked the button to unlock the car. Richie opened the door for Eddie, before crossing to the other side of the car. As they had for years. It was an unspoken script for their mornings before the Faire. “I knew you guys wouldn’t check the newsletter. Call is at 8:30 now for non-speaking characters, not 8.”

“KEEP UP, BOYS.” A voice crackled over Stan’s phone, which was placed in a little holder by the air-vents. The unmistakable voice of Beverly Marsh. “ALTHOUGH, I’M CALLING BULLSHIT THAT I HAVE TO BE HERE AT 8.”

“Soooo…” Richie drawled, picking at his fingers. “Does that mean I had to be there at 8?”

“Yes,” a chorus of Stan, Bev, and Eddie responded.

“Alright, well, they haven’t fired me for more than that,” he shrugged, shuffling down into his seat. “Wake me when we’re there.” He tried his hardest to keep his boots on the “Richie mat” that Stan laid out for him, which was just a clear plastic sheeting in the back.

“We’re all amazed,” Stan lightly quipped back with a small smile, which quickly turned to irritation “WHERE is Bill?” Stan asked, towards the house, as if it were the year 3000 and the house would give him a response, “We ARE gonna be late if he doesn’t get out here. Whatever he was doing can’t be that important.”

“He was showering,” Eddie replied, yawning cutely into his hand. He caught Richie’s eye as he did so. Richie, with a smirk, opened his arms, wordlessly offering Eddie a place to take a nap. Eddie flipped him off.

“Oh, well, nevermind.” Stan changed his tune quickly. “He can do that as much as he likes.”

Beverly snorted over the speaker-phone, “of course he can.”

* * *

 Beverly told Richie later that the coordinators lasted a good 20 minutes this year before things descended into madness, as they always did. By the time the guys rolled in, there were people pulling carts of costumes, and boxes were getting unloaded of cups shaped like swords, and a horse ran past without a handler, seemingly. Stan disappeared basically after they got out of the car, into the stuffy office where he counted money and did other boring bullshit. Richie bid his friends farewell, and climbed through the window of the dressing rooms because, of course, like a good egg, he would get Mike to re-punch his time so he was there at 7:55, naturally.

Truth be told, Richie loved the Renaissance Faire. The Renaissance Faire was a magical place where losers got to be losers and no one there expected anything differently from them. They were all dressed up in vaguely medieval garb because FUCK historical accuracy, nobody was there for that anymore. From there, there were things to do like see the shows about some sort of vague historical nonsense, eat a ton of greasy foods, buy weird crafts like dragon puppets or crystal necklaces, or play games, like the one Richie was a part of that involved just paying money to throw things at Richie.

Which people did.

And Richie loved it.

He loved the shit out of it, and getting to do an accent and sit on the front gate and just scream rude things at people during opening hours when people were coming in. He was the town fool and loved it. He got _paid_ to do this shit. He was good at it. He tried to tell his parents he was going on the road with the Faire for the next year instead of going to college and almost got thrown out of his house in the middle of February in Maine, so that plan got scratched. He was now going to University of Maine, which made his heart lurch into his throat because so was Ben, and that was it. He and Ben were going to U.M., but Bill and Eddie were going to U.S.M., a whopping two hours away. Stan and Beverly, FUCK them, were going to school in New York City. Bev was going for design or some kind of bullshit. Stan had received a full scholarship to go to NYU for some kind of boring math fuckery. Mike, bless him and everything about him, was staying in Derry, maybe, for the next year.

Speaking of Mike, he was running around the green room for the characters like an absolute mad-man, handing out assignment sheets and daily schedules. Which reminded Richie, topic at hand, get into costume before you get fired, because you have a whole summer before everyone fucking leaves.

It was probably the last time Mike would have wanted to be asked for a favor, so Richie opened his mouth and asked him for a favor. “Mike and Ike!” He screamed, waving one hand with delight, shuffling into knickers with the other. “My boy!” He grinned at him, shoving his glasses up on his face, realizing with a grimace he’d have to put in the itchy contacts soon.

“Tozier, I could kill you.” Mike grumbled, but thrust his things into the hands of an unassuming newbie, who was fully dressed. The King of the Faire was sitting in the adjacent corner, not close to being dressed, shirtless, smoking a cigar.

“What, did you hear me leaving your mother’s room last ni-” Mike grabbed his ear, and tugged. Mike was a short man, built in the shoulders, but short, almost as short as Eddie, and yet Richie was terrified of him. “Ow, ow, ow, I’m sorry, ow-” He loved Mike though. He really did, in fact, he was the only reason he was hired at the faire two years ago.

Mike dragged him over to the rack with his costume on it. “Change, now.” He dusted off his hands. “Outside, in five.”

“Okay,” Richie slumped against the rack. “Mike?” He called after him, shoving his head into the itchy linen shirt that, even though this would be his third summer playing the role, he never seemed to get used to. Mike turned back with an impatient raise of his eyebrow. “You did clock me in, right?”

Mike rolled his eyes, with a good-natured grin, “of course I did, Rich,” he grabbed his clip-board from the hand-man that hadn’t moved.

* * *

“Tighter.” The girl in front of Beverly commanded, and she winced. Beverly didn’t know how to explain to some of the women in their green room that it doesn’t matter if your waist looks tiny if fat is literally spilling out of the top of the corset. That wasn’t what corsets were meant to do.

“That’s enough, Mary,” she decided, tying the corset in a tight knot and ignoring her request. “I’m not making myself accountable for irreversible damage to your spleen.” And several other inner organs, she thought to herself.

“Bev!” She was getting waved down as she added another hair-pin, just to be sure, to the back of her head. It was Josefine, a tall, dark-skinned woman, who typically ran the story piece of the Faire. It was the second year Beverly was playing the Princess. Last year it was a more fun story, she got kidnapped by a pirate queen. This year there would be no kidnapping, which was lame, just two men fighting for her hand, doubly lame. “ Jim called out.”

“Oh?” She looked in the mirror, knowing Josefine was about to comment on her smudged eyeliner, which she pushed with her pinky, “for...today?”

“For the summer.” Jim was to play one of the men vying for her hand. Namely, the one who won. Beverly’s jaw dropped.

“Are you moving up a swing, then?” She turned around, mildly enjoying the delicate swish the hem of her dress made.

“Don’t want to,” Josefine winced. “They’re…”

“Interesting.” Beverly finished for her, politely.

“I was thinking, would maybe one of your little friends want to move up? You know, it’ll go quicker if you could teach them the role.” Josefine’s smile was meant to say, this is a favor from me to you! What it actually said was: it’s my job to find and teach a replacement and my life would be much easier if that were just your job.

Beverly grinned and rolled her eyes, sitting up on the table. “Stan and Mike already have better jobs. Richie would rather die than change roles.”

“We couldn’t replace Richie if we wanted to.”

Beverly had to grin at that. “ But, Eddie _has_ been trying to move out of food-”

“Eddie? Eddie Kaspbrak?” Josefine gave her a flat look, “Eddie Kaspbrak who is 5’ 6” and the reason Richie Tozier, the man who would lose his own head if it weren’t attached, carries an extra inhaler for because he, quote on quote: ‘doesn’t actually need it, so doesn’t carry one himself, but sometimes freaks out when he can’t find one.”

Beverly winced. “It’s a mental thing, really. It’s this whole big-”

“He’s also 5’ 6”.” Which was shorter than Bev, let alone in heels.

“...yes,” Beverly knew who Josefine was probably thinking about when she asked. But asking either Bill or Ben to fill in her love interest sounded absolutely terrible, and like making a whole lot of nothing, i.e. her relationships with both of them, into a whole bunch of something. “That he is.” She had met all of the boys at the Faire three years ago, and they quickly melded together to form their own little gang of idiots. She loved them, all of them, aggressively, and thought the world of each other. But she wasn't blind, or stupid, and she would be lying to say if she didn't know about Bill and Ben's little... _thing_ , for her, she supposed. 

“Do you want to ask your little friends, or not?”

Beverly sighed.

She and her friends were considered, by and large, some of the coolest people at the Faire. She knew that much. She also knew that wasn’t saying anything because in real people world, Renaissance Faire people were losers, unarguably. The coolest of the losers, that was them, alright. But she knew what Josefine was getting at. Some of the people at the Faire, men in particular, were down right fucking weird, and Bev would have to spend a ton of time with whoever it was. Bev, herself, was kind of fucking over this Princess thing, as it was, and was much more interested in the hem of her garment than learning her lines.

“I’ll bring it up.” She agreed finally, smiling up at Josefine’s grinning face.

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n  
> this seems. vaguely inspired by something i read when i was younger but so help me god i can't remember so if you are like "hey this seems familiar" HMU so i can CREDIT that shit!!!


	2. Chapter 2

 

Eddie was vaguely aware there was grease smudged on his cheek. He knew it was there, inching towards his chin, but he barely had time to make sure he was breathing regularly, let alone worrying about his appearance.

Working a food station generally anywhere was a goddamned nightmare, but working one within a Renaissance Faire was an especially warm corner of hell. He was selling pierogies, which he had known to enjoy from time to time, but he was one “verily!” from lobbing one of the annoying potato grease pockets at the head of a greasy nerd.

Eddie didn’t hate all of the Faire, he actually didn’t. He liked some of the performances, had a few laughs with customers, and… his friends were there.

He hated parts of the Faire, though.

“EDDIE-O SPAGHETTI-O!!”

Like that piece, in particular.

Standing in front of him, shit-eating grin, and messy hair, was, arguably, his best friend. Eddie flinched mentally every time he thought that, because of the unshakable thought that he was not Richie’s best friend, Bill was. Richie was already in his costume, ridiculously fluffy collared shirt and mismatched, patched, patterned vest. His grin was stretched out to almost bizarre proportions on his face, dark curls were pushed over to one side.

“Hello.” Eddie replied sullenly, dropping any facade of the old time-y act. He finished dumping onions on perogies and handing them to a kid who was just ever so slightly old to be dressed as Elsa.

“What’s up, buttercup?” Richie dropped his voice low, because he wasn’t speaking in his elizabethan, cockney accent that was standard for his character. Richie’s head tilted to the side, like an overgrown, gangly puppy dog. Eddie might have been able to find it more irritating if Richie’s eyes weren’t crinkled with the smallest bit of genuine concern. Eddie glanced up, and had it been anyone else, he would have doubted his own ability to convey several things with one look. But it was Richie.  _I’m not actually that upset,_ Eddie’s look said,  _I’m just grumpy_ , it whispered,  _thank you for actually caring_ , it mumbled under it’s breath. The corner of Richie’s mouth quirked up with understanding, and Eddie was, once again, somewhat terrified at how well they knew each other. “‘AY!,” Richie  licked his thumb and reached out towards Eddie’ cheek, “yee got some schmultz, me ol’ chap!” he tried to grab Eddie’ jaw.

“Ugh,” Eddie wiggled backwards “don’t you have to go be annoying somewhere else?” Most of the time, he made a passable attempt at the accent and language in front of guests, but he just couldn’t be bothered at the moment.

“Ay’, not till’ ten moments pass, lad,” Richie grinned, and insistently reached out to grab the back of his head. Eddie sighed and held still so Richie could wipe off his cheek.

Richie, looking satisfied, leaned back, planting his hands on the counter in front of him.

“Do you wanna eat?” Eddie quirked an eyebrow.

“It’s funny,” Richie leaned in lecherously, speaking without his brash cockney accent. Eddie felt his face flush as Richie’s neared his, “you sound just like your mother when I’m between her le-”

Someone behind Richie coughed loudly, he flipped around with annoyance “ay, lose the tapping foot, ye’ festering heap of yak dung!”

Eddie rolled his eyes, looking past Richie to the next person in line, giving him his descriptive ‘what do you want?’ look.

The customer, wearing a Mickey Mouse shirt easily from the mid 90’s, stained questionably on the hem, started barking out an order with irritation.

Eddie squeaked, and he hopped to quickly fulfill it. Richie, shoved over just a little bit, was giving the guy a filthy look. Eddie caught his eye to roll his own, telling Richie efficiently:  _it’s not worth it, relax._ Richie let himself be shoved to the corner, hugging the post that held up the stand, watching Eddie carefully.

He served the man quickly, and nodded at the next customer, who gave an order much more politely.

“So,” Eddie clicked his tongue as he filled the next order. “What are you-”

“Authenticity, Eddie!” A balding cook, named Paul, cooking massive amounts of onions and frying pierogies, reminded him with a wink. He and Paul talked rarely, rarely had time. Also, Eddie generally wasn’t good at actually doing the whole Renaissance Faire speak thing- hence Paul’s reminder. When they did talk, Paul was kind. Currently, Eddie wanted to ring his neck.

“Ye’, me boy,” Richie smirked, leaning on the pole, gangly limbs tangled around it. “Examine yer tongue, prithee.”

Eddie gave him a flat, annoyed look, so much so that the customer whose experience was in question, laughed. Eddie let a small, amused smile tilt on his mouth as he offered her her plate. She thanked him, and Eddie smiled at her back as she left.

When he looked up, Richie was grinning at him, as if he knew something Eddie didn’t.

“What?”

Richie just shook his head. Eddie turned to the next customer, thankfully the last in his line, as it was an odd time in the morning for fried potato sacks.

As soon as they cleared out, Paul cried that he was grabbing a new bottle of syrup for the soda machine, and departed. Eddie sighed, exhausted at barely 11 a.m., and heaved himself on the counter towards Richie.

“What  _are_ you doing here, Rich?”

“I can’t spend time with my best boy during my break?” Richie looked mildly affronted, his expression a healthy mix of a joke and genuine confusion.

“I mean,” Eddie stepped back, wondering if his face was still slightly pink, “I don’t...whatever.” He resumed his irritated face, hoping Richie didn’t notice how wide he knows his eyes went. He grabbed a rag from under the counter to wipe off the small mess of onions he made in the haste to serve quickly.

“Are you telling me you  _don’t_ want to be the best boy?” Richie looked overly amused, making himself as close as he could to Eddie without physically climbing into the booth.

“Shut up, Richie.”

“Eds, you say that so often it’s become romantic. Maybe it’ll be our  _thing_.” Eddie, genuinely, hated a lot of things about Richie. Despised a lot of the things he chose to be. What he was doing right there, the endless flirting, was by far the most infuriating habit of the taller boy’s. Eddie  _hated_ most things about it, it made his insides squirm and his face heat up, and the worst part about it: he had to make it seem like he hated it.

“Don’t call me that,” he chose to respond quickly, feeling his hands sweat a little bit into the rag which he was furiously wiping down the counter with.

“Maybe  _shut up_ will be our always,” Eddie could hear his amusement seeping into his voice as Richie referenced the popular teen romance, The Fault in Our Stars. He hated Richie, and the fact his heart was racing.

His hands balled up with frustration, and he threw the rag down unto the counter, “OH MY GOD, RICHIE,” he didn’t look up at him, he stared at the brown, stained counter, and the ratty rag he threw unto it, “SHUT THE FUCK UP,” he didn’t meant to be shouting, sometimes there was just a gremlin inside him that demanded his tiny lungs be as loud as possible.

He heard the softest, smallest laugh he had ever heard from Richie, and he couldn’t take it any longer, he looked up at him, at his wide grin and squinty eyes. After just a moment of their eyes meeting, Richie opened his mouth.

“...You shut up.” He told Eddie gently, fondly, and with a soft smile, as if they had actually just said ‘okay? Okay.’ instead of insults.

Eddie threw his rag at him.

* * *

 

Stan hated the Renaissance Faire.

He really did.

Stan didn’t hate the office so much, but he hated the reminder it served. He meticulously reorganized the pencils on his desk, so they were exactly the same length and distance apart from each other before he began setting up his spreadsheet on excel for counting.

He couldn’t stand to be in the chaotic mess that was the rest of the faire. There was very rarely any sense of order, especially in the stations. The one day he tried to help out Bill and take a food shift, Eddie said he looked like he was about to have a seizure, and he felt like it.

Not that Stan had had a seizure, but he could make his assumptions.

“Ready, Stan?” Dan, his superior, technically, though it hardly felt like it, tapped his shoulder.

Once a day Stan got locked in a room to count cash. It happened exactly at 11:05, and ended at exactly 2:05. He would organize, then count enormous amounts of cash. He normally had a partner, but they rarely spoke. Normally he and Sam just put in headphones and plugged away on their own. Sam counted coins and big bills. Stan counted 1-20’s.

It was a good system, a good job.

He liked it.

Stan stood up, and nodded to Dan, unwrinkling his shirt as he stood up.

He followed Dan down the hall, passing by Sam’s desk, which was curiously empty. It was strange, because it wasn't as if Sam were the  _most_ decorative person alive, but he normally put up a picture.

When they approached the door, It was still just him and Dan.

“New guy’s running late,” Dan explained as he unlocked the door. Stan wrinkled his nose. “I'll let him in when he gets here.”

“Okay,” Stan said plainly, and the door clicked close behind him.

Blessed familiarity.

White walls and grey desks. Black boxes, filled with cash to be organized. No fuss, no frills, no  _disorder_. He felt the small buzz in the back of his mind settle, just a little bit.

He sat down, rolling his neck, wondering if they briefed the new guy on the typical operation of things. He pulled out a count sheet, top right drawer, where they always were, grabbed a pencil and a box, and shoved in his headphones.

He was interrupted moments later by a seeming caucus of noise, moreso than he had ever experienced in that room.

A girl, with messy black hair thrown into a bun on her head, caramel skin and chipped fingernails, burst into the room, apologizing profusely.

“SORRY, sorry, I’m late!” She threw a patterned bag on the floor. She wasn’t allowed to have that in there, she should have been told that. Stan opened his mouth to tell her that, that Dan would yell at her. She looked down and saw it “OH GODDAMNIT,” she swore, Stan’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. “God, sorry, I’m such a mess today. When am I not, though?” She joked, eyes sparkling, as she picked up her bag, and opened the door. She all but threw it out, and it hit Dan in the face, as he tried to lock the door.

“OW,” he yelled, but managing to look amused, “oh, yeah.” he leaned over her shoulder, “thanks Stan.”

Stan hadn’t really done anything, but he appreciated the gratitude nonetheless.

“Be careful,” she warned him, “there’s a live kitten in there,” she pointed to the bag.

He looked horrified, clutching the bag much more gently.

“I’m kidding.”

“You’re strange, Plum.” Dan told her with a hint of amusement, nodding at Stan as he shut the door once again.

She whipped around with a big grin, brushing some of the stray hair out of her face. She was wearing a dress patterned with clouds, and a large, knitted, maroon sweater hanging open over it. Her eyeliner was smudged under her eye. Her black tights had a rip, and she was wearing worn boots that reminded him of Richie. He was being reminded of Richie, in his safe, clean office.

“Hi!” She greeted with a large smile. She had a bit of lettuce in her teeth. “So, how do we do this, wanna do the quarters first, or the pennies. OOH,” her eyes widened, Stan thought she might actually have a coffee stain on her hands, “LET’S WRITE A MONEY SONG.”

Stan took a deep breath. 

* * *

 Ben Hanscom was having a stressful day. "Just make sure it's done by the end of the day," his boss had said, leaving him with a tiny grid to make a model of what the lawns would look like for the last days of the Faire, a large floral, autumnal harvest festival. He had been given a confusing drawn out sketch of what he wanted on a napkin, and he also had to give a tour that afternoon of the grounds.

Ben liked working in the offices, and he was grateful for the sort of promotion, he really was.

But he missed his friends.

He missed having a job where if he did a shitty job at it no one would really care because it was the Renaissance Faire, not Disney World, and he could sneak off and goof off with some of the guys on occasion because everyone else did, too. Now he could only do that with Stan, who got himself locked in a room for three hours every single day.

Offices were stuffy and there wasn't a lot of whimsy... or at least there wasn't normally, but apparently, someone above had heard his complaining.

Sitting by Stan's desk was an incredibly grumpy looking Eddie Kaspbrak. He always kind of looked like an elf, at least he did to Ben, but now especially: enormous feathered hat on his head and dark green knickers reaching the ends of his knees. His eyes looked more enormous than usual under the wide brim, pointed nose flushed as he slumped down on the desk.

 "Eddie?" He asked, baffled at the sight amist all the button down shirts.

"Ben!" Eddie perked up in his seat, feather flopping into his eye. He scoffed, and took off the hat entirely, "where is Stan?"

"Counting." 

"Right." Eddie frowned in consideration as he stood up. "You'll do." They had been friends since their little gang of four rolled into the Faire in the first place, but the two of them hadn't been particularly close. Or at least, bombard each other at their place of work, close, anyway. Eddie didn't seem to care as he grabbed Ben by the shoulders and began to haul him down the hall, small hands surprisingly strong.

"Eds, I got work to d-"

"Consider yourself lucky I didn't kill you right here for calling me that," he opened a closet, and unceremoniously shoved Ben inside, stepping in close behind, slamming the door and clicking the light.

“I need you to get me out of that place,” He gripped Ben’s shoulders tightly as the ducked into a closet.

“I can’t do that for ya’, buddy, talk to Mi-” Ben had no power anywhere. Mike was a manager, and he wondered if Eddie had just come to see Stan so he could rant about hating his job. 

“Have you even checked the groupchat?" Eddie spit back with frustration. Ben...hadn't, actually, and maybe that was contributing to his loneliness in the office.

**eddie k 11:23**

**SOS**

**guys i can't do this i will die here**

**mike h 11:28**

**i can try and get a reassignment bud**

**you really want a shop?**

**eddie k 11:30**

**or a game**

**or an anything without grease**

**mike h 11:32**

**there is an opening!**

**eddie k 11:33**

**god is good**

**mike h 11:34**

**it's at the bottle smash**

Ben snorted. The bottle smash was directly next to, technically in the same booth, as the thing where people paid to throw things at Richie while he insulted them. It also involved broken glass. Nothing had sounded less like Eddie...ever. 

**bev m 11:43**

**eddie : read (check mark) at 11:34**

Ben was chuckling as he locked his phone, raising an eyebrow at Eddie, who gave him an exasperated look. 

“I don’t get it, Eddie," Ben replied honestly, tucking his phone into his back pocket. He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged, wondering if he should even bring it up at all, because he didn't want to push him into leaving entirely "why are you avoiding Richie? He’s your best friend.”

Eddie squinted “because I fucking hate him?” 

“That doesn’t make him any less your best friend.” Ben reminded softly, re-positioning his hands in his pockets. He leaned back on the shelves of cleaning supplies. 

“It’s,” he clicked his tongue, “complicated.” There was a lot Ben could have said on that topic, because he would really like to un-complicate it when it didn't need to be messy. But that was their cross to bare, and it didn't really matter how big Ben's shoulders got, he couldn't take on everyone's everything. His watch, fancy, from Apple, beeped with a text message about the model. He groaned inwardly, not at all wanting to kick Eddie out, but he had to get that done in an hour and a half now, which was impossible, so he could take that guy on a walk...

Unless.

“I see the look on your face." Eddie spoke quickly, hopping up on little toes, "That’s an idea face. Ben: you’re having an idea, please tell me it’s a good one.” Eddie's eyelashes made shadows on his face in the dim lighting of the closet.

“I have this map to plan out,” Ben considered, holding out one hand, “and then I also have this bloke to show around this afternoon.”

“Bloke?" Eddie snorted. "What the fuck, Ben. We’re not actually in 17th century England, you know that, right?”

“Do you want to play tour guide or not?” Ben replied irritably.

"Do I get to skip the booth?" 

 "If Mike can find a replacement." Eddie was really close to making a squealing noise, and Ben didn't think he was ever particularly ready to hear that, so he opened the door of the closet again, aptly solving the problem although not the problem he were truly interested in, if he was being honest. Eddie thanked him, stepping out of the closet, and Ben shut the door behind them again.

He took another look at Eddie.

“Do you have, um," Ben had no idea how to say it, "a change of clothes? Maybe?” They were expecting Ben, a nerd in a polo shirt, but a clean nerd. He was an intern, but a well liked one. It was a tour for stockholders, and while nothing had really changed from last year, it still was a mildly nerve wracking occasion. 

Eddie glanced down at what Richie lovingly referred to as his pirate shirt, with puffy ruffled sleeves, dirtied from grease stains, and dark green knickers.

“What's wrong with this? It's my uniform.” Eddie asked, counting it's merits. The shirt was soft, the pants fit well. The shoes were comfortable.

“It's… gross." Ben told him bluntly. 

Eddie wrinkled his nose “it is kind of gross, isn't it," he rubbed absent-mindedly at a stain right below his nipple.

“...yeah." Ben agreed, nodding. "None of my clothes will fit you, what did you wear here today?”

Eddie explained in pain-staking detail, and Ben still somehow got the feeling that even if Mrs. K didn't pick out his clothes anymore, she still managed to involve herself in the process. Light peach polo shirt, khaki dress shorts, brown leather shoes.

“You little preppy nerd," Ben replied affectionately. He wouldn't wear what he wore to work if he weren't gonna be literally fired if he didn't, "that'll do. If your shirt isn't ironed, give it to wardrobe.” He reminded, finally pulling out his phone and checking his messages from his boss.

“ _Jesus_ , what is this, a tour or a first date?” Eddie asked sassily, hands on his hips. Ben gave him a flat look.

“It's a, Ugh, here,” Ben rolled his eyes, and straightened Eddie’s hair and wiped off the dirt from his cheek. “You look like you work in a zoo, not a kitchen.” It seemed like he could only smear the dirt further into the freckled skin, and not off of it. Eddie didn't mind being preened, apparently, and held still while Ben rubbed at the spot. 

“I feel like I work in a zoo,” Eddie replied solemnly, “it can be a dark place in there.”

Ben laughed, cheeks reddening with amusement. He pat his cheek jokingly, wondering if he seemed at all like Richie when he did so. “Come here after lunch and I'll call Mike.” He already had his phone in his hand again, typing out a lengthy reply to his boss.

“He'll be furious.”

“Not with me.” Ben reminded him, which was true: Mike let Ben get away with far more than anyone else, with maybe the exception of Bill.

Eddie rolled his eyes but knew he was right, and grabbed his feather hat from the desk. He plopped it back on his head just to make a funny face at Ben.

 "Excellent look," another voice came from behind Ben, and he jumped involuntarily. A man, who probably wasn't that much older than them in age, but made him feel like a toddler, was behind him. He had scruff on his chin and a well fitted suit, taller than Ben. He had thin wire frames and green eyes behind them, although Ben had the feeling they were only for reading, because he had a stack of reports in his hand. "Pardon me, guys." He put a hand on Eddie's back so he could move past, Ben noticed the fingers pressing into the light cotton fabric low on his back. Eddie didn't say anything, just skidded out of the way.

"Who is that?" Eddie asked about the retreating back. 

"No clue. Never seen him before in my life." 

“He’s cute,” Eddie commented lightly. Ben blinked the surprise out of his eyes, and glanced at Eddie. Eddie was not well known for openness with his sexuality or attraction to men. Ben felt, in equal parts, taken aback and tickled that Eddie chose to open up like that. 

"Yes, definitely," Ben didn't know what he was supposed to do, but he felt mandated to agree. He was secure enough in his own masculinity to mention another man's handsome-ness. "Dimples, and everything-"

"Who has dimples?" Another voice came from behind them, and Ben jumped,  _again_. Even though he knew the voice.

Standing behind him, in all her curled-haired, up-do, t-shirted glory, was Beverly Marsh. She was clearly about to take break because she was out of the decadent costume and wearing a t-shirt for her high-school frisbee team, which Ben found baffling, that that even existed, let alone existed strongly enough to have a t-shirt for.

Eddie was watching him expectantly, thinking loudly at him,  _say you, say you, say you, say you. Flirt for once in your goddamned life, Ben._

"Heath Ledger," Ben replied with a stammer and Eddie shut his eyes, visibly disappointed.

"Hm," Bev frowned with consideration, "random, but not wrong." The smile was back, and Ben could lose himself in the entire smile. It made his toes warm, and he didn't even know how the science of that was supposed to work. "Ready for lunch, Eddie?" She asked. 

* * *

“Bev, I'm tellin’ ya’” Richie said through a mouth full of fries. Eddie sat next to him, scrolling through his instagram account. Absent-mindedly, and without looking up from his phone, Eddie reached up with his free hand, pressing gently into Richie's chin. He non-verbally reminded Richie to chew, swallow, talk. Richie obliged. He chewed, then swallowed. Eddie removed his hand. “It's not that big of a fucking deal.” Keeping his eyes on Bev, before Eddie fully removed his hand, Richie grabbed it, and pressed a kiss into his knuckles.

Eddie made an  _‘eugh’_ sound, and shook the boy off of him, much to Richie’s bemusement.

“I know,” she sighed sadly into her mashed potatoes. Sadness was an emotion that should never be felt in the presence of mashed potatoes, “I'm making a big deal out of nothing.” They were talking about the opening for the Prince, or whatever it was Eddie didn't qualify for because he was short and Richie didn't qualify for because he was Richie. She had stalled all day, not telling Bill or Ben, and Richie was ready to put it in the group chat himself. 

“Yeah, you are.” Richie agreed, sneaking mac and cheese from Eddie’s plate. “Besides,” he said, through a mouthful of mac and cheese. “Everyone knows we're endgame.” He grinned, leaning forward, over the table, to her.

“Are we, Rich?” She quirked up an eyebrow, giggling to herself.

“Naturally.” He knocked shoulders with Eddie. Eddie had gotten oddly tense next to him. “Right, Eds?”

“Don't call me that.” He replied tersely. Richie gave him an odd side glance, but thought the guy was just having an off day. He turned back to Beverly with a smirk.

“One day you guys'll admit we're the will they/won't they of the century." He leered at her, smirking as he leaned over the table, feigning strong romantic tension. "Fuck Ross and Rachel, Jim and Pam.” He prattled off, enjoying her amused smirk and flushed face, knowing she probably wouldn't touch him again even if they were dying, but a man could try. Their last kiss had been a long time ago, but it was still fun to pretend, sometimes. 

“Do you want this?” Eddie was standing up quickly, offering Richie the rest of his plate.

“Where ya’ going?” Richie clicked the home button on his phone, which was sitting out on the table. They had fifteen minutes left for lunch.

“I told Ben I'd help him with something.” Eddie responded, not quite meeting Richie's eye. He didn't press the matter further, just turned from the table with a quick “bye, Bev.” He dumped the plate in the trash, and headed towards the offices.

“Aw,” Richie watched him go sadly, “I did kind of want that.” But the mac and cheese was now firmly in the garbage’s sticky embrace, and he didn't want it that badly.

When he looked back to Beverly, she was giving him a flat look.

“What?” He asked.

“You're an idiot, Tozier.” And it wasn't exactly like Richie disagreed, it was more so he'd like to know what he did that time. He raised his eyebrows. She scoffed, “you can be so-”

Richie was already vaguely annoyed, so he moved on, and procured a pack of cigarettes from his pocket “cig?” He offered.

She shot him a filthy look, but took one anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Richie 02:21  
****Where is spaghetti**  

**Ben 2:23  
****Italy**  

**Richie 2:23  
****Benward you fuckin tease  
****U kno where spaghetti is**  

**Ben 2:24  
** **How do you know that**

**Beverly 2:25  
** **He told us**

**Bill 2:29  
****But really where is eddie  
****My patrons are being terrorized**  

**Richie 2:32  
****Bill is a filthy lying slut**  

**Mike 2:35  
** **Bill are you texting at your booth**

**Richie 2:37  
****He sent that with his toes**  

**Beverly 2:39  
** **Kinky  
** **By the way guys,  
** **Anyone want to be in the mainstage?  
** **Lol**

Ben squinted at his phone, staring at their groupchat. His first response, as it was Beverly who asked, was an instinctual yes. He managed to delete that text before he sent it.

**Bill 2:41**   
**??**

**Beverly 2:43**   
**This one guy quit.**   
**I guess im leading the replacement charge**

“Hey,” he heard Stan pleasantly greet from behind him. He grabbed an extra chair and pulled it up Ben’s desk.

“Hi,” Ben absently fiddled with the mute button on his phone, flicking it on and off, weighing his options. One the left hand, he had a good well paying job that suited him and he got to do things he not only like to do but were beneficial to him in his future professional life. On the right hand, Beverly.

He hated that he was leaning towards the right hand.

“How was counting?” He asked, setting his phone in front of him so he didn’t rudely ignore his friend. Stan looked nonchalant as he shrugged.

“Literally fucking awful,” he replied pleasantly. “Don’t even want to talk about it.”

Ben nodded tightly, “okay.” He huffed out a laugh under his breath. “So…” he drawled, not wanting to be selfish and explode into talking about Bev because he knew he always did that and it had to be annoying.

Stan sighed “tell me what you want to tell me,” he told him, crossing his arms.

Ben breathed out relief and many, many words as he jumped into what Beverly said, even though Stan could very well read it himself, and all of the pros and cons he was considering and that he was sort of contemplating making a list? He should just make a list, right? In fact, there was a white board in the conference room to make lists on, he was pretty sure that’s what it was there for: list making. Stan blinked at him as he rambled, nodding ocassionally but overall looking like he was just waiting for his turn to speak.

Ben ran out of breath.

“Just tell her you want to do it.” Stan told him plainly, but he broke as he leaned forward, and smiled kindly at Ben.

“But I…” Ben exhaled sharply, feeling pangs of insecurity in his chest. _‘If I don’t try I can’t fail,’_ he thought, and then said “I can't really act” Ben shrugged, already insecure about the entire thing.

“No one can,” Stan squinted at him incredulously. “It's the fucking Renaissance Faire.”

* * *

“ALRIGHT CHAPS,” An enormous group gathered in the square. It wasn’t the full staff by any means, but a goddamned impressive chunk for fifteen minutes after shut-down. They were an odd site, and odd bunch of people, gathered in what might have resembled a circle if one briefly explained the concept of a circle to an alien and then asked them to recreate one. People were in all sorts, some in full costume, some ready to leave with their keys in their hand, some half dressed, wearing band t-shirts over period complacent puffy pants, or leggings and a corset. “WE HAVE GATHERED HERE TODAY TO BRING HONOR TO OUR ANCEST-”

“RICK,” A voice from the back screamed, “GET ON WITH IT."

Eddie couldn’t help but agree with whoever the Rick hater was, because he, and everyone else there, was well aware of the concept being laid out in front of them.

“Fine,” Rick dropped his hands, “come get your name, dicks.”  

They played this game every year. It was moronic, and childish, and so of course: Eddie’s friends lived for it. Eddie himself likely wouldn’t be there if his ride weren’t practically bouncing on his heels to pick out a name.

The rules of the game were simple:

The game is played until it ends. Most of the time, it lasted at least until the early weeks of August, except that one year they were told about years ago where a massacre broke out as soon as the names got released. You receive a name at the beginning, and a crayola marker. It is your responsibility to mark that person with your marker, and once you do: you get whatever name they had, and any they collected along the way. You did this until you had every slip of paper with a name crudely written on it in your hand. This year, there were 132 to collect. There were rules, but they were flimsy: you can’t attack while people are changing, can’t do it in front of guest eyes, can’t do it around the expensive costumes.

Just about everything else was fair game.

Last year Eddie truly thought he had seen it all when a short man named Phil literally hung upside down from a rafter for over a half hour to get out this old man named Steve who was determined to win, but judging by the gleam in Richie and Bill’s eyes as they stared the other down, it seemed he was wrong. 

* * *

 Mike was sitting in the Denbrough driveway in the passenger seat of his truck with the door wide open. He scrolled absent-mindedly through Instagram, waiting for Bill to come back out. Bill, Richie and Eddie disappeared into the house over ten minutes ago to get drinks. Probably because it was Richie, the entire process had become way more complicated than necessary. He had driven the three of them home that day, because Stan looked exhausted after work. Mike’s truck didn’t necessarily accommodate for that, but Richie never cared about riding in the back. He would often lie down flat and throw bags of leftover cotton candy at the school children. They didn’t talk about Richie’s habits, sometimes.

Mike realized there was a hushed conversation happening near him, and he found that odd, because Eddie could screech in tones only bats could hear, and looked up.

“STOP, _okay, stop_ , I’m going.” Georgie Denbrough flipped around, standing in front of two friends. One of them had an unfortunate case of acne that reminded him of freshman year Richie and a pretentious beanie, the other was a girl with scraggly blonde hair pushed behind her ears, and her hands clasped over her mouth. She was giggling. Mike got horrible flashbacks from when kids approached him when he was their age just to be mean to him. “Hi, Mike.” Georgie greeted.

Georgie, for all of his talk of hating Bill, looked remarkably like Bill when he was his age. He had neat, parted hair, but it was blonde, and he was wearing a clean button up shirt, tucked into his pants.

“Hey George,” Mike waved, nodding at his friends, “what’s up?”

“What are,” George wiped his hands off on his pants, and they left faint sweat marks, “what are you doing today?”

“Me and Bill are gonna work on the car.” He clicked the lock of his phone, putting his elbows on his knees and leaning out of his truck.

“You know a lot about that, right?” Georgie fiddled with his pocket. “Because, you know-” he gestured to the, actually terrible, beaten down green pick-up truck.

“Your truck,” the blonde one piped up, “is _so_ cool.”

“Will you drive us around in it sometime?” Beanie started to ask but he was getting smacked by an irritated Georgie, muttering _“stop it guys, shut up-”_

“Sure.” Mike shrugged amidst Georgie’s flustered behavior.

“Wait,” George’s big eyes glanced up at him. He licked his lips, a nervous habit from the braces, which as far as Mike knew he had only gotten them taken of as of like, 12 weeks ago. “Really?!”

Over the heads of the kids, Mike caught eyes with Bill. Bill, shortly followed by Eddie and Richie, had just tumbled out of the house, laughs on their mouths, before looking up to scope out the scene as Bill had done. Bill sent Mike a clear ‘ _what the fuck is going on_?’ look, and Mike would have loved to known the answer to that himself.

“Yeah,” he shook his head, not trying to give Bill away, and looked back to the kids, “I don’t see why not.”

“THAT WOULD-” Georgie’s enthusiasm seemed to even surprise him, because his voice cracked, and he reconfigured himself, leaning back, putting his hands in his pockets. But then he took them out of his pockets, awkward shuffling, getting closely watched by his friends. Mike was baffled by the entire thing. “That would be so cool, Mike.” He reached out, and put an awkward hand on Mike’s forearm.

Ten meters away, Richie was trying so hard not to laugh out loud he fell over into the grass. Eddie was silently wheezing, and Bill was watching with wide eyes.

“...yeaaah.” Mike drawled uncomfortably, eyes flicking from Georgie’s hand on his arm to the boy’s...face, smiling… flirtatiously?

_Oh…_

_Jesus fucking Christ._

“We’re gonna go listen to music in my room,” Georgie finally, after it seemed like a century, retracted his hand, putting it back in his pocket, “if you...like, need a break, from my dumb brother.”

Mike had no idea what to respond with to that. Behind Georgie and his friends, Eddie was doubled over, hands pressed into Richie’s shoulders, who was sitting in the grass, face in both his hands.

Bill had not moved.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Georgie.” He looked back to them.

“It’s George.” He snapped, but then, once again, corrected himself. Teenage puberty hormones were truly wild, “you can call me George." The three of the kids then made their way into the garage, giggling and muttering to each other, tripping over each other’s feet. _“I can’t believe you did it-” “I know, I know I was so nervous did I sound cool-”_

As soon as the door in the garage clicked shut, the floodgates opened, and Eddie also fell into the grass as he and Richie collapsed with laughter.

“H-hey Mike,” Richie called out, “when’s the wedding?”

Eddie straight up snorted then, and Mike hopped out of his truck, shutting the door behind him. He walked over to his friends, putting his hands in his pockets, feeling the flush on his neck.

“Don’t be cruel, guys,” he reprimanded them, taking the cherry coke he knew was for him out of Bill’s baffled hand.

“I c-can’t believe,” Bill stammered, looking back and forth in between Mike and Eddie and Richie on the ground, “he didn’t tell me.”

Eddie sat up, mostly so his legs were touching the least amount of grass possible. He felt the ghost of an itch that would never come on his ankles, “about what?” He cracked open the cap of his strawberry lemonade, “his big gay crush on Mike?”

Richie stayed flopped in the grass, head by Eddie’s lap.

“Y-yeah!” Bill replied indignantly, “I-I’m a good b-b-big brother! He c-could h-have told me he’s g-g-gay!”

It was Mike’s turn to bust out laughing, choking on his can of coke. Leave it to Bill Denbrough, to not be mad at his brother for having a crush on his best friend, not be mad at his friends for laughing about it, but to be mad that his 13 year old little brother who seemed to have no hobbies beyond loudly proclaiming his hatred for Bill, didn’t tell him about his attraction to other men.

Eddie laughed too, and Richie chuckled, but mostly at Bill’s appalled face at their amusement.

“IT’S NOT F-F-FUNNY!” Bill told them loudly, smacking Mike in the stomach, who could only laugh harder.

Richie rolled over, grabbing his own soda from where he dropped it on the lawn, and cracked it open amidst the laughter.

It bubbled up, splashing all over him and Eddie, who shrieked, and scrambled away, cursing at Richie for his carelessness.

“N-now,” Bill’s face finally cracked into a smile “ _that’s_ funny.”

* * *

Bev debated about going to hang out with the guys at Bill's house, as she probably would spend a good chunk of the summer doing. She had done that in summer's passed. It came with the added benefit of the ride home in Mike's truck, and the opportunity to throw cotton candy at kids with Richie. But, Ben had approached her with a half a bag of kettle corn, arguably one of earth's greatest snacks, and maybe she was more tired than she thought she was, so she asked him for a ride home instead. 

After some point in time, it exhausted her to be in the presence of just about anybody. Even Richie, and she was just about as relaxed with him as she got with anybody. It was probably some twisted mental thing, her own hyper-vigilance of her own behavior. She just wanted to be smart but not pretentious and funny but not mean and sassy but not scathing and it took way more work than anybody knew, probably.

She thought, as she sat in the comfortable sedan, that the only person who never exhausted her was Ben. 

Ben, with his big hands and soft eyes, who never looked at her as if he wanted her to be anything but what she was. She put the kettle corn in her lap to put on her seat belt when he gently reminded her to. Ben never felt the innate need to flood their presence with a constant flow of conversation. But, if she needed him to talk, he always had something to say. 

Ben handed her the chord for music so she could plug in her phone, because he knew she sort of hated when she wasn't playing D.J. Her heart flooded with appreciation as he backed out of the lot, carefully. A more careful driver than Mike ever was. She picked something dumb, something she wanted to hear and she picked it because she knew he would never judge her on her music choices.

 _"Three little birds sat on my window._  
_And they told me I don't need to worry..."_

Since the air was warm and the wind was light, Ben rolled down the windows of his car. Bev felt the melody relax her shoulders, and let her head loll to the side, wind brushing the small baby hairs out of her face, as they pulled out of the lot. The car picked up speed and so did the wind and Bev felt her shirt rustling but a still serenity in her heart.

Ben recognized the song then, and he looked over with a smile. It wasn't amused, like Bill's would have been, or mildly condescending, like Richie's would have been, or overjoyed, like Eddie's would have been. His smile was gentle, and she felt like he could see more of her in her song choice than even she could. Like he was content to love it, because he loved...

She shook that thought out of her head

 _"Girl, put your records on, tell me your favorite song_  
_You go ahead, let your hair down..."_

* * *

“Mike,” Bill moaned, laying across the top of his car, sort of. Sort of laying because the hot ass day didn’t allow him to actually press his skin into the metal, sort of a car because his dad bought it for him thinking they could fix it up together, before remembering neither of them knew jack shit about cars. “ _What d-do I do,_ because I j-just want to tell her-”

“Bill,” Mike rolled out from under the car, “if you think I’m gonna work on this damned thing while you stand there and whine about Bev, you’re so sorely mistaken I could smack you for even thinkin’ it.”

Bill, doing a terrible job pretending like that was not what he had every intention of doing, tried to look useful by grabbing a hammer. Mike gave him a flat look.

“Bill, I’ve known the girl for three years.” He finally pushed out from under the car fully, t-shirt smudged with grease. “She is arguably the most easy going person on the face of Earth. Ask her out, because literally the worst possible scenario is she says no, no one cares, and we all move the fuck on.” He wiped off his hands with a rag, leaning against the hood of the car, “And we can work on ya’ damned car without the constant whining, _Jesus fucking Christ_.”

“You s-sound like Richie.”

“Take that back, you son of a bitch.”

Their conversation got cut short because a horn beeped at them, and Bill jumped. His mom was pulling into the driveway, via the lane that was not occupied by Mike’s truck, and he hopped out of the way so she could park.

“Hey Billy,” his mom greeted after narrowly missing hitting her son with her car. She stepped out of her car, bag tossed over her shoulder, hair in her face. “MIKE!” Her eyes lit up when she saw him, making happy little hopping steps to hug her son’s friend. She had on a crisp yellow sweater and jeans that she easily bought ten years ago, and just waited for them to come back into acceptable fashion.

“...hi Mom,” Bill replied flatly, watching his mom press a kiss into Mike’s cheek. As if he weren’t over at least once a week.

“Is Rich around?” She asked him, returning to her car to grab a brown paper bag of groceries. Where his mom managed to shop that she still received groceries in brown bags, he had no idea. She was a marvel to him sometimes.

“He’s inside,” Mike replied, wiping off his wrench with a rag. Bill had no idea when it started to sound like all of his friends lived in his house but him, but it made him snort. He honestly kind of loved it. “He and Eddie are in his room.” Richie had wanted to be with them, but he got banned from car privileges when he tried to fill the exhaust pipe with whipped cream to “see what happens” when they turned the car on. Eddie gave up on pretending to give a shit about cars years ago.

“Oh, perfect. I had something to ask the two of them,” she stated, as if that was what mothers typically did with their son’s friends. Mike opened the door to the garage for her, and Bill smiled, because his friends were sweet, and it clanged closed.

He realized then that his mother offered him a beautiful out, because now was his chance to redirect his conversation to not being about him having to tell Beverly. He didn't particularly want to tell Bev about his feelings for her. He merely wanted to tell everyone else about them. They, selfishly, weren't really big on that idea. Richie threatened to water-board him two nights ago when he woke him up to tell him about Beverly's eyes. Because, he was painting something and he couldn't get the color right when he realized, green, that's what he was missing. Just a little bit of green mixed in with the dark blue at the edges and the color was just right, and NO, Richie, he WAS NOT going to take a trip to the bathroom with him, HE KNEW WHERE THAT WAS GOING.

"Soo..." he drawled, adjusting the rear-view mirror as if he knew which direction it needed to be pointing in, "the f-f-phalange on this thing is starting to look reall-"

"You're telling her." Mike told him bluntly, ignoring his cover-up, and popping open the hood. 

Bill groaned. 


	4. Chapter 4

A week later, it was a Monday morning and Eddie hated his friends. He was so fucking tired, and his head was pounding. They had decided it was of the utmost importance to watch all three Cheetah Girls movies the night prior. At 9 p.m. They didn’t finish until 3 a.m. They proceeded to have a fight that lasted an hour, or at least it felt like it to Eddie, about who was which Cheetah Girl character. Eddie, for the record, did not give a fuck what anyone said: he  _ knew  _ he was Marisol. 

He could feel Richie breathing on his neck when his watch beeped, effectively waking him up and no one else at 7 a.m. He had slept on his side on the pull-out couch, arm bent up under his head. He assumed the uncomfortable warmth on the side of his stomach was Richie's arm over his waist. He opened a bleary eye. The weird thing about the attic was that it wasn't brilliantly insulated, so even though there weren't windows, it felt like the sunlight was seeping in anyway. Richie made a snuffling noise against Eddie's neck. Eddie realized the arm over his waist was actually Bill, who was facing him, not Richie. He was tucked in between the two on the full sized pullout couch. He was very squished. He could hear the tell-tale sound of Ben Hanscom snoring, so he probably fell asleep on the floor somewhere in the room. Stan disappeared to sleep in Bill’s bed at some point around the midnight mark. Beverly left as soon as Richie admitted she was Chanel, and went to sleep on the Denbrough couch. Mike had followed, but Eddie didn’t know if he went to share Bill’s bed with Stan or sleep on the couch with Bev. If it was the latter, Eddie should have gotten up to wake the two before either of the Denbrough parents woke up. They were as easy going as parents came, but they had their limits. 

But Eddie’s head was pounding. He was so tired. He wanted to go take a shower. He knew Stan would be in there within minutes, and Stan always took  _ forever _ . But even the idea of the sun from the window in the hallway was hurting his head. 

He must have gotten somewhat restless, because Bill was shuffling around too, pulling him in tighter. Eddie couldn’t help it. The pull-out bed wasn’t anyone’s dream, but it had it’s moments. It was covered in soft blankets, and a multitude of pillows Richie had collected from various questionable places. Eddie rolled over, more effectively tucked under Bill’s arm. His shoulder rested on Eddie’s. Eddie fell back asleep. 

He only needed five more minutes. 

* * *

Ben was yawning at his spot at the kitchen aisle at the Denbrough household. He loved their kitchen. It was a soft green color with white cabinets and gray counter tops. Mrs. D. had really beautiful art-work hung up on the empty wall. One of them, Ben's favorite, was Bill's. It was an intricate battle-ship drawing, but it was painted to be deep sea at dawn, all colored pencil and beautiful shades of grey and blue and green. It was a gift for Georgie, when Georgie liked boats and Bill. He no longer liked either of those things.

Beverly was falling asleep on Ben's shoulder. Her red hair tickled his cheek. He tried so hard not to move. Mike, miraculously, was fully alert, and was chopping up vegetables for Mrs. Denbrough.

A cup of coffee was placed in front of Ben. Three spoons of sugar were then dumped in, and a heavy serving of cream. A smile came across his face. A mug was placed in front of Beverly, and left black.

“Stan Uris,” Beverly picked up the mug with a yawn, “you’re a god among men.” 

“I agree,” Mrs. Denbrough joked from her spot at the frying pan, dumping a heaving serving of scrambled eggs on to a plate. Mike was already grabbing her more eggs out of the fridge. “You might be the only reason my son has managed to keep a job.” 

“Might be?” Mr. D scoffed from his spot at the table. He was flicking through the morning paper on an i-Pad. “Try: you are the only reason.” Mrs. Denbrough put plates in front of Ben and Bev. Ben thanked her, and Beverly, already with egg in her mouth, just made a halo gesture above her head. Mrs. D waved them off. 

Stan didn’t reply to Mr. D, but he grinned into his mug. Ben knew he liked the appreciation, and it made him feel this swell of affection for Stan. “Speaking of your sons,” Stan downed the rest of his cup, checking his watch. “Someone needs to go wake up Rich. It’s 7:20.” 

“Thought you said,” Mike said through a fork-full of eggs in his mouth. Mrs. D shot him a look. He swallowed, “thought you said you weren’t leaving till 8?” 

“Well, I am. But you-” he pointed at Mike, “are leaving in fifteen minutes, and he should be in your car. Because you guys start-”

“At 8.” Mike rubbed a sleepy hand over his face. “Got it. He’s was just late every day last week, I forgot.”

Beverly shoved her face in her hands with an exasperated sigh. From the table, Mr. D. snorted. Ben laughed, but he was also eating eggs, so he couldn’t laugh that much. 

“NOSE GOES,” Beverly called loudly, suddenly, and when Ben looked up from his plate, everyone, including the parents, had fingers on their noses. The rule was: when something needed done and nobody wanted to do it, you call nose goes. The last person put their finger on their nose has to do whatever it is.

“...fudge.” Ben swallowed. 

* * *

Ben crept up the ladder carefully. He was actually really surprised Eddie wasn’t up yet, but he could assume he was very tired. He didn’t want to disturb anyone, including Georgie was also asleep in his own room, that didn’t need disturbing.

They almost looked like they were in a nest, blankets an assortment of soft textures. A knitted one, one that looked like fur. One blanket was just a fleece piece of fabric with a Spongebob pattern on it. 

Bill was holding Eddie, and Ben stopped. He, because his friends weren’t there and no one could see it, let out a small coo and pressed his hand over his heart. They looked so sweet. Eddie was on his stomach, face turned towards Bill. Bill was laying half on top of him, also on his stomach, arm over his waist. His face was in Eddie’s hair. They looked so tired, and so did Richie on Eddie’s other side. But Ben had been given a task.

“Richie,” he muttered softly, shaking his shoulder. “Get up, bud. Rise and shine. You have to leave soon. 

Richie sat up, rubbing a tired hand over his face.

“Glasse-” he was muttering, but before he finished his question, Ben was pressing them into his hand. 

Richie groaned loudly as he stretched. Ben winced. He didn’t want him to wake up the other two if they didn’t have to be up yet. He grinned when he saw Richie’s shirt. He had forgotten they put them on last night. Richie’s green shirt was press-printed with the words “#1 MOM” and it had a spray-painted stenciled picture of a cheetah right below it. It made no sense, almost as little as Bill’s light blue shirt, which just had a press-printed picture of a fried egg on the chest, and it was a crop-top. Ben and Richie got drunk last summer and made them. They presented them to Bill for his birthday. There were pictures of everyone in the club wearing them at some point in time. Ben's favorite one was pinned to the wall of memories that he and Mike worked on together, stretching out the entire back wall of the attic. It was Eddie, looking upset, because when he had on the blue one they realized it was not a crop-top on him. 

“What,” Richie asked, and Ben wondered if he had looked too long “we’re not waking up Sleeping Beauties?” Ben hadn’t looked too long, because Richie wasn’t watching Ben. He enviously was staring at Bill and Eddie, probably because they were still asleep and he wasn’t. That’s what Ben assumed, anyway.

“You’re supposed to be there at 8.” Ben reminded him gently. He found Richie’s shoes on opposite sides of the attic. Ben liked being taller, now. He preferred it, definitely. It was just kind of annoying when you were trying to stand up in the attic. He dropped Richie's shoes by the side of the couch.

“Right.” Richie was still watching them. He seemed to shake out of it, cracking his neck and back. He shook his hands as if that would shake the sleep right off of them. “Right,” he repeated, swinging his legs off the bed. When his feet hit the floor, he looked like he didn’t know what to do with them. Ben imagined he looked like that most mornings.

“Ah, shit.” Richie ran his hands through his hair. “I needed to take a shower last night.” 

Ben nodded sympathetically. Richie's hair looked kind of gross. He wondered if he should just tell Richie that Mike let it slide that he was late five times...a sixth probably wouldn’t end the world. 

“It’s already 7:30…” Ben settled for saying, checking the time on his phone. “Do you just want me to tell Mike-”

“Yeah, yeah. Probably.” Richie muttered into his hand, because he was digging the crust out of his eyes with his fingers. He stood, clearly well practiced in the room. He maintained a slump, so his head didn’t bump right into the ceiling. If Ben thought it sucked standing in there for him, being 5’ 10”, he could only imagine how much it sucked for Richie. He didn’t know exactly, but Richie was the tallest of the group. He was maybe 6’ 2”? 

“Okay. There are eggs downstairs.” Ben told him, making for the the ladder again. 

“Should I wake them up?” Richie sounded softer than usual that morning, sparing another long glance for Eddie and Bill. 

Ben was halfway down the ladder. He shrugged. “If you want.” Ben couldn’t quite put his finger on Richie’s expression, but it looked like Richie wanted to. “I was gonna let them sleep a little longer.”

“I, uh-” Ben was already out of sight before Richie responded. He heard him though, sitting back down on the bed. It creaked loudly as he said “yeah.” 

* * *

Stan was sitting at the kitchen table. He had the New York Times app open on his phone. He and Mr. D were working on the crossword. It wasn’t that much of an unusual Monday. At the kitchen aisle, Richie had wet hair and a cup of hot chocolate in his hands. Everyone knew Richie didn't drink coffee. He was telling Mrs. D. a story about a guest last week that got so drunk they tried to climb the side of the castle. Ben was giggling next to him, even though he had heard him tell it at least three times already.

He heard Eddie start shrieking in the attic.

Like Stan had thought earlier, not entirely out of the ordinary.

Richie spared a worried glance for upstairs. He shook it off his face quickly, sharing a look with Mrs. D. “fucking drama queen,” he winked at her.

“Language,” she warned with a pointed finger. It had no real authority, because of her soft smile.

“S?” Mr. D. looked puzzled, reaching for his mug without looking up, “‘on a t-shirt tag?’” He asked Stan, referring to one of the clues for the puzzle. As if one of his son’s best friends hadn’t started yelling upstairs.

“Small.” Stan answered calmly.

“Ah.” 

Ten minutes later, and it was five minutes until Stan was leaving, friends or no friends. Okay, normally he wasn’t _actually_ that harsh, but Ben was also there to drive that day. He could take some of them, if need be. Richie had half-heartedly blown dry his hair, saying the rest would air-dry by the time they got to the Faire. 

Bill, in typical teenage fashion, had come down fully dressed five minutes prior, and scarfed down eggs. Stan thought his jaw might have actually unhinged. He and Ben made quick work of the dishes after that.

Eddie had rushed down the stairs six minutes later. He was wearing a smart looking polo shirt and khakis. Stan squinted at him. Eddie was doing up his belt with anxious fingers.

“I used your dry shampoo,” he told Mrs. D. in a hurry, fingers still fumbling with his belt. “I’m sorry. I thought I would have time to shower this morning. I kind of freaked out when I realized I didn’t.”

“We heard, son.” Mr. D. said with amusement from the table. Stan double checked his shoes were tied “‘Gather over time?’” Mr. D. asked. 

“Amass.” Stan answered, brushing a bit of dirt off his shoes. 

“It’s fine,” Mrs. D. replied kindly to Eddie, but he was already gone. He had hurried across the room to the small decorative mirror hung up amongst picture frames in the foyer. He had given up on the belt thing, and was fixing his hair in the mirror. A bit of the dry shampoo left a grey dust in a piece of his hair line. He aggressively rubbed it in. 

“You’re  _ preening _ ,” Richie smirked, rolling his eyes as he watched Eddie. “Got a hot date at the Faire today?” He wore an expression that mixed amusement and irritation beautifully. He stood up from the stool anyway, crossing to Eddie. 

“Yeah, well,” Eddie rubbed his scalp aggressively, even though there was no mark anymore, “your sister called last night and you know how I care for to make her-” Eddie trailed off, realizing his come-back was no longer making sense. 

Richie grabbed his belt, doing it up for him quickly, “no, no-” he encouraged, “keep going.” 

Eddie glanced down, looking somewhat grateful Richie helped, “you’re fucking insufferable.” Stan blinked at the entire exchange. He tried to catch Bill’s eye, so he could roll his own. He actually caught the eye of Mrs. D instead. She winked at him, and Stan had the feeling she had the same thoughts he did. 

“8:05, gentleman.” Mr. Denbrough announced from the table. Stan stood up, grabbing his keys from the counter. Ben stood up with his own keys around his finger, thanking Mrs. Denbrough, and went straight for the door. 

“WHAT-” Richie whined, turning back to the rest of the room, “how come when _I_ swear it’s all ‘watch your language,’ but if Eddie-bear over here does it’s-”

“You sound like Georgie.” Mrs. Denbrough warned with a twinkle in her eye. Eddie had already followed Ben out of the door. 

“ _It’s George_ ,” Richie continued his imitation when he got called out on it, looking amused by the entire concept, “ _mom_ , I’ve told you a hundred times,  _ it’s George now- _ ” he imitated the whiny voice the young teen seemed so very fond of. 

Bill laughed, grabbing Richie by his neck and all but shoving him towards the door. Stan thanked the Denbrough parents one last time, and shut the door behind them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realize this work is n o t very popular probably bc its just schmoopy nonsense but i cant abandon it bc ?? i love ?? writing all my random, modern day, happy life headcanons down for this gang. i just . need some healthy adult relationships in this mix. its totally self indulgent, i know, but this one genuinely makes me so happy. thanks for reading. thank u those of u who've left feedback, u really make my heart happy. it makes my whole day.
> 
> if you want to come be silly with me and send me headcanons about pictures of eddie kaspbrak in a crop top and how the club takes their coffee, my tumblr is tossertozier


	5. Chapter 5

“If you get me fired, I swear to God,” Mike grumbled as he unlocked the door to the closet. Stan had himself pressed against a wall in what Mike was sure Stan thought was a stealthy manner. He didn't have the heart to tell him that he was just as visible pressed against the wall as he would be if he wasn't. Stan ducked into the room, somehow maneuvering his long limbs under Stan’s out stretched arm.

“Swear you’ll what?” Stan asked, grabbing the chair that was shoved into the A.V. set up. In their game of “assassin,” Stan had gotten the name of the guy that ran the lights and sound effects for the mainstage performances. He had cleared his entire morning by staying late the night before so he could hide under the man’s desk that morning and get him out. By waiting for him to sit down so he could mark his ankle with a permanent marker. Because that was the way sane people spent Wednesday mornings.

“What?”

“You’re swearing to God, but you didn’t say what you’re swearing you’ll do.” Stan was sitting on the floor, folding himself like a horrifically gangly origami swan.

“I-” Mike, in all his empty threats, had never been asked what exactly he was threatening to do.

“I’m just trying to prepare,” Stan continued, “for the repercussions I’ll face,” he was struggling more than was explicitly necessary, shuffling backwards so he was fully under the desk. “If the unlikely but still plausible event of you getting fired comes to pass.”

Mike blinked at Stan’s pristine white keds that peeked out from under the desk.

“I mean it must be pretty serious....if you’re swearing to God about it.” Mike couldn’t see Stan, but he could hear the shit-eating grin on his face.

“...you done now?” MIke asked finally, “satisfied with yourself?”

Stan didn’t laugh, but Mike could tell by the air in the room that he was very pleased with himself.

“Well buck up,” Mike kicked Stan’s foot, grabbing the chair so he could cover the two of them with it.

Like a hilarious turtle appearing out of it’s shell, Stan popped out. “You’ll hide under this desk with me?” He asked eagerly.

“Well, old man Newman comes in at 9:15,” Mike checked his watch. It was 8:55 a.m. “I got a spare twenty minutes, so long as you’ll help me with some stuff after.”

Stan groaned, but nodded as he put his head back under the desk where it was. Mike dropped down and climbed under the desk after him. It was incredibly cramped by the time he was dragging the chair so it was pushed into the desk like it was when they came in.

“I mean, you cleared your entire morning, right?” Stan nodded, “what time do you get locked in to count?”

“UGH,” Stan looked like a grumpy pretzel, arms over his knees, his calves somewhat pressing into Mike’s, “don’t remind me.”

Mike frowned, “you used to love that job.”

“Pat is just the worst person in the world.” Stan exaggerated moodily. Mike smirked. “Okay, fine, but like. Here: so, we came in yesterday, right and I said-”

Mike was folded up into such a small person that he worried his organs were touching, crammed under the desk, and listening to one of his best friends complain. But he was in a blessedly air-conditioned space and Stan was making that face that made him look like a ruffled bird and he could feel his own heart beat pleasantly in his chest. He felt warm, content, to be crammed under a table. He supposed he'd be content to do just about anything with good company.

It was, all in all, to him, a good day.

* * *

Bill was astounded by the number of texts Richie, a character performer, was able to send during work. He had no idea how accomplished it. Even when he was with Richie, sometimes he’d send a text in their group-chat and Bill would immediately look up and see Richard Tozier with no phone in sight.

Bill tried to subtly keep up with what was going on while he was at his own piece of the Faire, the glass-blowing booth. He propped up his phone on a little stand out of guest view, having it plugged into the wall. His technical boss and the Faire’s main glass-blowing artist, Rick, ran an underground bong and weed dispensary for employees and anyone generally in the know at the Faire. Bill highly doubted he cared, and he never said anything if he did.

Richie had sent a text to the group-chat aptly named MATH CAN SUCK A DICK. Eddie had made it in his sophomore year when he was generally convinced he was going to fail trigonometry and required Bill and Richie’s help on a daily basis. They never changed it, because honestly, even though they graduated, math could still suck a dick.

 **Richie 11:12 a.m.  
** **Lads  
** **I think a girl i just saw at my booth just matched with me on tinder**

**Eddie 11:14 a.m.  
** **Profile?**

That was a weird habit of Richie and Eddie’s. Richie would often send him online love interests and they would discuss potential. To some extent, Richie would ask Bill’s opinion too. He just wasn’t good at giving his advice. Eddie was an excellent profile analyst. Bill looked at them and thought, _“yep, that looks like a girl. Just like the last one.”_

**Richie 11:15 a.m.  
** **(link to sarahxxbee)**

 **Eddie 11:16 a.m.  
** **(photo of a girl with an enormous hound dog)  
** **Odds that that is actually her dog?**

 **Richie 11:16 a.m.  
** **Probable  
** **The dog looks into it  
** **in that the photo**

 **Eddie 11:16 a.m.  
** **Agreed**

 **Richie 11:17 a.m.  
** **(photo of a girl and a mop lying on the floor)  
** **Relatable**

 **Eddie 11:25 a.m.  
** **(photo of, admittedly delicious looking, baby back ribs)  
** **Go get her, son.**

There were very few people Bill Didn’t Understand quite like Eddie Kaspbrak.

* * *

Ben had a few days at the office where his head was going to explode they kept him so busy. He had to run around in circles and do six thousand things at once. Ben barely felt he could competently do one thing at once so those days weren’t good.

But he’d take a million of those days over twenty minutes of the day he had, where he had absolutely _nothing_ to do.

He was making a small army out of paperclips on his desk when he heard voices around the corner, coming towards him. He gracelessly picked up the small trashcan under his desk, and swept his arm across the fields. _Rest in peace_ , he thought as his soldiers disappeared into the bin, _tiny angels._

But to Ben’s surprise, the first person to turn the corner was Eddie Kaspbrak. He thought to himself mournfully _‘I killed my men for this?’_ He was wearing a neat blue button down with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow and meticulously combed hair. He flipped around as soon as they walked into the area, and didn’t see Ben. He was shortly followed by that one guy Ben had seen around the office the entire last week, and still had no idea who he was. He had tan skin, ambiguously ethnic with curls on his head that were nothing like Richie’s thick, tangled waves, but more defined and swept back into a neat cropped hair cut. He was less intimidating without a suit and glasses, but he still towered over Eddie. Not quite to the extent that Richie did, but Ben would guess the man was taller than he was, probably around Bill’s height of 6’. His body language was engaged, leaning down into Eddie. Eddie pressed his back into the wall, but the man seemed to be getting closer to him. Ben had still gone undetected, but the guy could look up at any moment.

Ben made an honest attempt at diving to hide under his desk, but his knees slammed into them, and he howled. Eddie flipped around, and they made unfortunate eye contact. Eddie looked caught, like a deer in headlights. Eddie clearly thought, himself, about diving under a desk, the way Ben had tried to

“H-hey, guys!” Ben greeted awkwardly, as if he had earned the right to refer to the stranger as a general group of guys, as if they hung out. Eddie swallowed thickly.

“Uh, Noah-” Eddie turned to the guy, looking like a puppet that had recently become human and was still adjusting to having movable limbs, “this is Ben, one of my best friends.” Warmth Ben would never admit to ran through his chest. “Ben, this is Noah. He’s the shareholder I’ve been assisting since…”

 _Since the day you had me give that tour because you were busy_. Ben finished in his mind.

Ben nearly jumped to his feet, holding out a hand for the man to shake. “Hi, I’m Ben. Architecture and Grounds intern.”

“Nice to meet you,” the guy, seriously, had the straightest teeth Ben had ever seen. Ever. Seen. “I’m hardly a shareholder,” he tried to talk himself down, become more approachable. Ben thought he should get rid of some teeth if he wanted to be approachable. “Just the son of one.”

“ _The majority shareholder_ ,” Eddie mouthed to Ben from behind Noah. Ben wondered how teeth could be so damn intimidating.

“He’s just sent me to do some visitation these past few weeks. Learn a little bit of the layout from a local. Eddie here,” Noah shifted back, and grabbed Eddie’s elbow. Ben stared at it. “Has been such an asset to me.”

“Stop,” Eddie rolled his eyes, looking flustered, in a way that Ben almost recognized, “I just know where the best turkey legs are.”

Noah laughed genuinely. Ben was too busy looking at the hand on the elbow. “It’s true, he does. But I think I’m going to catch lunch off site today. Been craving pasta, and I heard there’s a good Italian place down the road.” He turned to Eddie, not excluding Ben impolitely, but in a way indicative of a private question. “Want to join me?”

Eddie, god bless him, had the poker face of a drunk toddler. His eyes widened, and he licked his lips nervously. “Ye-yea. Yes. Of course,” Eddie nodded furiously. His eyes flicked to meet Ben’s, but quickly looked away. Probably because Ben’s face was some outrageous expression of _HOOOOLY SHIT WHAT’S GOING ON AND WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME ABOUT IT DID YOU TELL ANYONE ABOUT IT WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS._

“Great. I’m just gonna make a call in the office,” he pointed just beyond the hall, “and then we’ll go.” He turned back to Ben, who got his shit together in the blink of an eye, and held a hand out, “pleasure to meet you.”

An amazingly calm Ben shook his hand, “likewise.”

As soon as the office door clicked shut, Ben was shoving Eddie into the supply closet. The way Eddie had to Ben their first day of work. The bottles of cleaning supplies and god awful mothball smell were almost comfortingly familiar.

“So,” Ben clicked on the light. “What was that.”

“I.” Eddie blinked, “don’t know?” He swallowed, looking incredibly nervous. He fussed with his shirt collar. “I think he’s just being nice.”

“What if he’s being,” Ben narrowed his eyes “ _nice_.”

“I…” Eddie’s wide eyes were doing a bizarre line dance of blinking combinations, “I don’t know.” Even in the low-light, Ben could see the pink tint on Eddie’s cheeks. “I think it might-” an involuntary smile came on Eddie’s mouth.”I don’t know,” Ben batted away his hands from his collar, so he could adjust it. Eddie played with his fingers nervously.

“You _like_ this guy, don’t you?”

“I think I could.”

* * *

“Beverly Marsh,” Stan chided with amusement as he sat down, “is that a beer?”

Beverly threw the rest back. The Faire served alcohol to guests, with a strict no drinking on work policy for staff. And by strict, they meant Strict Don’t Get Caught policy. “Not anymore,” she winked at him as she tossed the cup into the garbage can that sat close by. “You look less stressed.”

“The one good thing that’s come out of Pat,” he stabbed at his green beans. Beverly smiled fondly at his plate. Stan looked down. He had neatly categorized foods in color order. “Is the insistence we take a lunch break in the middle.”  
“Now you can see our beautiful faces.”

“I _live_ for it,” Stan replied sarcastically, but knowing she could tell he was genuinely glad to see his friends during lunch. “Where the hell are they?”

“There’s two,” she pointed past him. Entering were Bill and Mike with bags, talking about something in what seemed to be hushed tones. They noticed they were being watched, and they stood up-right, and very poorly pretended they weren’t talking about something.

“Hey guys,” Bill greeted politely, swinging around the round table to sit next to Bev. It was, unironically, a round table, in the middle of the break room for employees. "I brought you this," he put a small rice container in front of Bev. It had a single fried ball inside. "The guys at the booth next to me, you know Dave and them?" Stan sort of did. He tried to stay as far away from most food stands as possible, but especially them. They fried things. They fried just about anything. "They were messing around with a recipe. That's a fried mac and cheese ball. It's really good, I had one." He smiled, turning to his own food. Ben looked up when a hand tapped his shoulder. Ben was sitting down next to him, sliding into the seat. Stan spared him a grin. Ben smiled back, but he looked distant, like he was thinking about something else. 

Bev's hand grabbed Bill's chin, pulling her to him like she did Richie sometimes. But Stan wasn't sure if she knew she couldn't joke around with Bill the way she did with Richie. "You're an angel amongst men, Bill Denbrough." She kissed him hard on the cheek. His face burned red. 

Stan raised an eyebrow at Beverly, who had sworn to him, for two summers in a row, that she wouldn’t date Bill. She took notice, and began to rub against her temple with her first two fingers, looking away from Stan. She slowly dropped her pointer finger, leaving her middle finger rubbing against her temple. He huffed out a broken laugh under his breath.

“Where are,” Mike asked, with practical, well-place suspicion, “Richie and Eddie?”

“With someone.” Bill and Ben replied in unison.

Ben looked up with surprise, “how did you know that?”

Bill, too, had a crumpled, confused, brow “how did _you_ know that?”

“Does Richie know?” Was Ben’s next question, and Bill looked entirely baffled.

“Does R-Richie know _what_?” Stan stared back and forth between them. Stan constantly felt like he was at a complete crossroads between enthrallment and complete apathy. Rather than choose a road, he just stayed put and swiveled around, staring down at what might be.

“I-” Ben spared a nervous glance for the table, “I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing.”

“Richie’s tinder girl?” Bill took a large bite of his sandwich.

Ben’s eyes explained that whatever he was talking about definitely didn’t have to do with Richie’s internet escapades. “Ah, yeah. That,” he pretended like it did because he apparently needed an out, “nevermind.”

Bill shrugged, and continued to eat his sandwich.

Stan looked at Bev, and sent her his best inquisitive _what the fuck was that_ look. She frowned, because she didn’t like not being in the know, especially when it came to Richie.

“I think I almost killed Stan this morning,” Mike, blessedly, changed the subject. Stan shuddered at even the thought of that morning. “We were this close,” he made a squeezing gesture with his fingers, “y’all.”

“HE TOOK ME TO THE STABLES,” Stan loudly added, indignant at the sheer memory, “IN WHO’S WORLD IS THAT ACCE-”

* * *

“Okay, yes-” Beverly laughed as she sat down on their patchwork couch. She and her aunt made the cover themselves, cutting apart t-shirts with funny slogans and sewing them together to cover an ugly floral couch they bought from the Goodwill, “yes, Jo. I will. Tonight. Definitely.” The couch might have been uglier the way it came out than it was before, but Bev loved it, ugly or not. Beverly set down her cup of tea in front of herself, tucking her feet up under her comfortably.

She smiled at her aunt, who spun around on a stool at their kitchen island, from across the room. Her aunt, Clara, who was wearing a light pink negligee under an oversized black hoodie, and white fishnet stockings, was shoving oatmeal into her mouth. Clara, mouth smudged with hot-pink lipstick and her blonde hair tied up in bobbles on either side of her head, gave her a curious look. Bev waved her off, a signal she’d explain in a moment.

“I know. Yes. Jo. Jo. Trust me: I don’t want another day of Greg just as much as you don’t want another day of Greg. No one wants more Greg.” She nodded, stirring her tea in her chipped CUNT mug, where the C was the handle, around. “Yes. Okay, alright. Bye now. Yes,” she laughed, “I love you too. Bye now.” She hung up, tossing her phone onto a cushion with horses embroidered on it. “Whew-” she giggled to herself, picking up her mug, “my boss is fucking crazy.”

“Can’t be crazier than mine,” Clara said through her oatmeal.

“You’re your own boss.”

“Exactly,” Clara grinned, hopping off the stool. She had ditched the 6” white heels, they were sitting dejectedly next to her. “So,” she padded over to the sitting area. It didn’t take her long. Their apartment was small. “What’s going on?” She sat on the over-stuffed arm chair they pulled off a corner after a well-timed Craigslist ad.

“SO:” Beverly took a sip of her tea. It was jasmine. She had added a little elderflower extract for sweetness, it was her favorite. “The guy who was supposed to play the guy who wins my hand in the big play,” she used broad terms for a non-Faire person, “up and quit right at the beginning of the summer. Right now the part is being played by this creepy swing named Greg who has ego issues, and keeps asking for a private dressing room. I don’t even have that. When the position opened up, two of my friends applied for it. The director decided she doesn’t care which of them fills it, and told me to pick. And I don’t know which one.” She shrugged, humming over her mug of tea.

“Which of the guys is it?”

Bev gave her an amused look, mouth pressed together, “you wouldn’t know if I told you.” She teased her aunt, wiggling her toes. “You should really let me bring them over sometime, they’d really like to meet you.”

“‘Hi, kids!’” Clara acted out the greeting, straightening her posture and plastering a fake smile on her face, “‘I’m Bev’s aunt! I fart in men’s faces for a living. Pizza rolls, anybody?’”

Their apartment, admittedly, was a little bit of a disaster. There were three rooms. Bev’s, Clara’s, and what was lovingly referred to as the dungeon. Clara worked as a dominatrix, which was, by and large, the closest thing to legal prostitution. She loved it and everything was always safe, sane and consensual. Beverly never minded it, and honestly, she never really saw it happen. The only thing it really resulted in was some weird shit in their place. Like the time she found a whip tucked between couch cushions, or the pile of garters by the foot of the coffee table.

“Anyway,” Bev rolled her eyes. “How was your day?”

“Eh, eh- eh” Clara shook a finger while she shoved the last spoon of oatmeal she had left in her mouth, “not so fast, young lady. Tell me about these boys.”

Beverly sighed. She understood that there were a lot of them, but Clara could never really seem to be able to keep Bill, Ben, Stan and Mike apart in her mind. Richie and Eddie she could always remember, just not the other four. She always had to be reminded that Bill was the one with the stutter, then she knew immediately. Stutter. Heavy. OCD. Black.

“Bill is one of them. Tall guy, stutters on occasion but it’s better every summer. Clear…” Bev didn’t know how to put it “leader of the pack. Ben is the other, he’s heavy, he likes architecture. Really nice.” Bev took another sip before putting her mug down. “I’m astonished he even applied. He already has a better job.”

“And Ben is the one who you think has a thing for yo-”

“Yes.” Beverly interrupted. _They both do,_ she thought with a flush in her chest.

“And Bill is the one you have the thing for-”

“No.” Beverly interrupted again.

“Right,” Clara gave her a flat, teasing, look. “Bill’s just the one you used to talk about non-stop.”

“Anyway,” Beverly changed the subject. She and Bill really didn’t have anything to do with the topic at hand. “I don’t know. I think Bill should do it. Ben already has a nice job, a better one, probably, than this one. And it suits him. The only reason he applied to do it is because of, well.”

“You.”

“Yeah.”

“And the alternative is…,” Bev loved her aunt Clara. She loved her every moment of every minute they spent together, and she was fiercely thankful for the life they had built together after her father went to prison when Bev was fourteen. Beverly hated when her aunt looked like she knew something Beverly didn’t, “Bill?” She smirked.

As if Beverly’s reasons were everything to do with it being Bill and not everything to do with not being Ben.

Bev gave into the bait, responding to her aunt’s obvious assumptions she was thinking but not saying, “what?” Bev asked, picking up her cup.

“Hmmm…” Her aunt ran her finger along the inside of her bowl from the oatmeal, picking up the morcels on her finger, “I was honestly gonna say it,” she licked the edge of her finger, “but there’s nothing I could tell you that you won’t figure out for yourself eventually.”

Bev laughed into her mug.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i present to you :: clara marsh ! and noah, what a time, folks . get ready 4 some nonsense. 
> 
> i got ?? the nicest feedback on the last chapter ... i was honestly so shook and humbled and i thank literally everyone who comments because it encourages me so much ? ive never written this quickly before and im having so much fun & having people that are having fun with me is lowkey a new concept and... thank u for leaving comments if ur a person who does. it really just makes my whole day.


	6. Chapter 6

  **groupchat**

 **Mike 4:23 p.m.  
** **Aaaand  
** **It’s week 2  
****And someone's already gotten drunk and started getting naked**  

 **Ben 4:24 p.m.  
****New record?**  

 **Richie 4:27 p.m.  
** **oh fuck no.  
****rob told me one year it happened on the first day by lunch**  

 **Bev 4:36 p.m.  
** **so.  
** **guests are leaving, asking to take pictures  
** **normal stuff  
** **this one guy comes up  
****and asks for a pic**  

 **Stan 4:37 p.m.  
****Riveting.**  

 **Bev 4:38 p.m.  
** **fuck off i’m getting there  
** **when he comes to take the picture he starts  
** **???  
****petting my head**  

 **Mike 4:39 p.m.  
****What the fuck?**  

 **Richie 4:41 p.m.  
** **me.  
****very relatable.**  

**Bev 4:42 p.m.  
** **Beep beep, Richie.**

Stan blinked at the texts with a little bit of surprise. It had been a while since someone beeped Richie. When they were younger, before they got comfortable enough to tell each other to fuck off or shut the fuck up every five minutes, it was said constantly. As they got older they only beeped when it was serious. Stan thought he could count on his hand the number of times it was said that school year. They said it when they genuinely were irritated, and Richie actually needed to fuck off. Stan actually thought Richie was lucky, in a way. If Stan pissed off one of his friends, he had no real way of knowing. Richie always heard it, loud and clear.

 **Bev 4:45 p.m.  
** **ANyway  
** **i’m pretty sure after that he took a pic of my feet.  
** **so.  
****love my job!**  

 **Bill 4:50 p.m.  
****alright im ready to fight him**  

**Ben 4:51 p.m.  
** **Same.**

**Mike 4:53 p.m.  
** **As long as we fight him in the parking lot off premises i'm down**

 **Stan 4:55 p.m.  
** **I was gonna make a joke about lets go find the neck-beard with a foot fetish.  
** **But I just described like…  
****A quarter of the Faire’s patrons.**  

**Bev 5:03 p.m.  
** **i…  
** **hate how true that is.**

 **Bill 5:08 p.m.  
****hey guys wheres eddie**  

 **Bev 5:10 p.m.  
****his stand is next to that enormous pickle**  

 **Stan 5:11 p.m.  
****That pickle haunts my dreams.**  

 **Richie 5:13 p.m.  
****hes not there**  

**Ben 5:15 p.m.  
** **Same, stan.  
** **I don’t know why though**

**Bill 5:17 p.m.  
** **whaddup?  
** **where is he**

 **Mike 5:18 p.m.  
****The pickle is super unsettling.**  

**Richie 5:22 p.m.  
** **idk  
** **i just know hes never at that stand**

 **Bev 5:23 p.m.  
****Overthrow The Pickle**  

 **Ben 5:25 p.m.  
****Occupy the Pickle.**  

**Bill 5:27 p.m.  
** **rich wya**

**Mike 5:27 p.m.  
** **Please don’t start anarchies against enormous plastic snacks on the clock.**

**Richie 5:33 p.m.  
** **Cleaning up @ my stand**

**Bev 5:33 p.m.  
** **can we start anarchies against Other Things?**

**Bill 5:33 p.m.  
** **omw**

**Mike 5:35 p.m.  
** **debatable, bev.**

* * *

 

“Hey, Rich.” The Faire was almost fully shut down. The Faire finished at 5 p.m., but it always took nearly a half hour to clear out the remaining guests. Bill passed by two on his way out. They were kissing noisily while sharing cotton candy. They were also wearing incredibly half-assed Luke and Leia costumes. Leia’s costume was made from a bed sheet, Bill thought. He didn't know which grosses him out more, the cotton candy thing or the sibling thing.

“Billy, my boy.” Richie was sitting on the counter of his booth. He had a bottle of water and a contact lense case sitting next to him. He took out a lens and flicked it away, blinking wildly.

“Where's Katie?” Bill asked, regarding the girl with curly hair that helped run Richie’s booth. Bill leaned against the side of the booth.

“We’re already cleaned up.” Richie dumped some water on his fingers. He put the water bottle down and jabbed two of his fingers in his other eye.

 _‘That's disgusting,’_ Stan’s voice said in the back of Bill’s mind. Bill decided the display didn't particularly bother him. He had seen Richie do plenty of things that were grosser. He couldn't tell you exactly when, but at some point in time, Richie had become his brother. Things stopped being gross or weird. They never turned back.

“What do you want to do tonight?”

“Mags called today,” Richie replied lightly. He shook the excess water off his hand as he took his contact out.

Bill blinked. Sometimes he forgot Richie even had parents of his own. They hung out at Bill’s so often they hardly seemed relevant. Richie used to fight with them constantly. Their relationship had mellowed out in the past years. Richie gave up on acting out for their attention. They gave up on trying to corral Richie. Richie spent most of their summer last year at Bill’s, but he slept at his own place during school nights of senior year. He mostly regarded his parents with the apathy that you would have towards roommates who have boring taste in television.

“Yea?” Bill asked, huffing out a laugh. “Was she…”

“Drunk?” Richie finished. He unfolded his glasses and returned them to his face. “Probably.” Richie laughed oddly. He rubbed at his nose, it was reddening. It was a cool day, as dusk came upon them.

“Nah, nah.” Richie waved himself off as he hopped off the the counter. “ _Kidding, me ol’ mate.”_ Richie had a tendency to slip into a strange accent whenever he started to talk about something uncomfortable. “She just wanted to know where I fucked off to. Went was giving her shit.”

“You tell her you joined the circus?” Bill smirked.

“Making porn - but close, Billy. Close.” Richie complimented. “Is the club coming over tomorrow?” It was a Thursday, and the next day was the blessed weekend which normally meant everyone was over at Bill’s.

“They usually do.”

“Yea,” Richie rubbed his hands at his eyes under his glasses. “Fuck,” he groaned, “I’ll probably go over there tonight.” Richie grabbed a paper from the floor, and squinted at it, his hair fell into his eyes. He was probably deciphering whether or not it was worth keeping. “Did you hear about that job?” He asked as his eyes scanned over the lines.

“What job?”

Richie shot him an amused look. “The belly-dancing job you applied for last weekend.” He crumpled up the paper in his hands.

“...what?”

“The job with Bev,” he threw the crumpled up paper at him, “dipshit.”

“Oh,” Bill pursed his lips. He knew, and so did Richie, probably, what Richie was referring to. Bill had to get better evasion techniques. “I d-don't know,” he told him honestly. Richie slipped over the counter to land on the other side. “Jo was supposed to call s-s-sometime t-today.”

Richie gazed at him curiously. He reached up under the title of the booth to pull down the locking mechanism for the booth. “Stuttering, Big Bill?” He yanked down the heavy metal cover. “Are you that nervous about this?”

“I d-don't know.” Bill _did_ know - and so did Richie if he was thinking clearly, that calling out the stutter just made it worse. Richie pulled a lock out of his pocket to lock the cover down. “I'd l-l-l-l-l-li-” he got stuck on the word. The stutter, after years of aggressive speech therapy, was rarely a big issue anymore. Sometimes words just got stuck.

“Jesus Christ, Billy.” Richie shoved his hands back into his pocket now that his task was done. “I have enough broken records at home.”

“Fuck you,” Bill rolled his eyes at the tired joke, and elbowed Richie. Richie grabbed his arm as he did so and tugged him into a half-hug. Bill let himself be hugged. He knew Richie had a bizarre way of showing his affection.

“Excuse me,” a voice came from the path behind them. They turned quickly. Richie dropped his hand from Bill’s shoulder.

“ _Ah, blasted, mate-_ ” Richie replied forlornly, throwing his voice back into his patented Faire Voice, “ _bugger all- we've locked-_ ”

The man was roughly Bill’s height, and was wearing a sharp vest the same color as his dark gray pants. He laughed. “I'm not a guest,” he held up a hand as he interrupted. He had a shiny watch on his wrist the caught the sun and hurt Bill’s eyes, revealed by his rolled-up sleeves. “Are you Richie Tozier?”

Richie dropped not only his thick character accent, but also the bouncy, outlandish energy that his character had. It was also a distinctly Richie energy- but not something he always had. Richie, Bill could tell, grew wary next to him. Richie shoved his hands into his pockets and squinted. “Yea,” he replied. Bill could hear the ‘ _who's asking?_ ’ tacked on to the end despite Richie not actually saying it.

“I just had a question for you,” the man could also sense the tense energy. He attempted to lighten it by opening his hands and smiling. He was clearly trying to be non-threatening, “just wondered if you might have a minute to talk.” His eyes flicked to Bill.

Bill took the hint. He glanced at Richie from the corner of his eye. He waited a few seconds to see if he'd give him an indication of what he'd like him to do.

“I'm-” Bill started when Richie took too long, “gonna head up to the break room.” He pointed behind him with his thumb.

Richie licked his lips and nodded, reaching out to pat Bills shoulder as he passed “yea- yea, sure.” Richie waved, “I'll catch up in a few.” Bill nodded as he passed by. He hated the enormous hill that led down to Richie’s booth. Everyone did, which was why people rarely came to say hey to Rich during work. His calves were already burning by the time he heard Richie shout to him “ _CALL JO_.”

Bill shook his head with a laugh. He was a few feet further away when he heard Richie say “so, this _doesn't_ have anything to do with you throwing things at me?” He joked, referencing the stand Richie worked where all he did was insult people while they tried to throw things at him. The guy laughed.

“No,” was the last piece of the conversation Bill heard.

* * *

 

Ben was slumped into the couch when Mike walked into the break room. He had his chin in his palm. He looked oddly pensive. Mike nervously checked his own clip-board of tasks, but ultimately set it down with a sigh.

“Hey, buddy,” Mike had stuff he needed to be doing to wrap up the day, but he pulled up a chair anyway. “What’s up?”

Ben jumped. It seemed as if were completely unaware someone else even entered the room. He smoothed his hair back carefully, “oh,” he sat up. He rubbed his hands over his khaki pants. “Hey, man.”

Mike furrowed his eyebrows. A wary, anxious emotion that felt like a mix of concern and suspicion flooded him as he asked “are you okay?”

“Yea, uh-” Ben lied. Mike winced before he could stop his face. Ben’s eyes, blue at the edges, looked in between Mike’s. He sighed. “Okay,” he shifted forward on the couch. He set his elbows on his knees. “I-” he stopped again. He was thinking over what he wanted to say.

“Is this about Bev?” Mike prompted with an intentionally soft voice.

Ben almost laughed, “when isn’t it?”  
Yeah.

Mike pressed his lips together into a soft, sad smile. He didn’t know what to say, so he just exhaled slowly and replied “I’m sor-”

“Don’t.” Ben shook his head. “It’s on me.” He looked away. He looked like he had gotten lost at sea within the murky waters of his own mind. It was quiet for a moment. Mike was content to wait. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but a milling, gentle silence. A few people filtered into the dressing rooms. Mike offered them absent-minded waves in response to curious looks.

“It’s not her fault,” Ben reasoned finally. Mike sat up, unaware he had even relaxed. “I just want to be close with her,” Ben admitted “in whatever way that ends up being.” Ben shrugged his way out of how his own reverie. “It ends up hurting sometimes,” he nodded to himself. He licked his lips, “and that’s on me.” He stood up as he finished, rolling his shoulders back.

Mike understood what Ben was saying despite the minimal words. He actually had stuff he needed to be doing, but sorrow stretched out in his chest. He didn’t pity his friend, he knew Ben would hit him in his chest. He just yearned for his friend’s happiness.

“You wanna play a round of Whaleburga?”

Ben’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. “You want to?”

Mike shrugged. He could take a hit for the day and indulge his friend. He’d just come in early tomorrow. “I could go for a round.”

Ben’s face lit up. Mike felt a warmth blossom in his chest with the lift of the corner of Ben’s mouth. “Should I text the group-chat?”

Mike nodded as he stood, cracking his knuckles, “meet in the square in ten.”  

* * *

 

“Doesn’t that seem a bit...excessive?”

Richie frowned. He had no idea where this Noah character got off. Richie thought a chocolate fountain hand melted from thousands of Eddie’s favorite ice-pops and renting a bat-mobile was a perfectly reasonable first date idea.

“Well, not really.” Richie replied honestly, “but maybe Eddie wouldn't mind something a bit more simple.”

Noah smiled in a way that made Richie sort of feel like his teeth were trying to express his dominance over his own. “I get that vibe.”

Okay. Noah seemed like a decent enough guy. If you went for the already-looks-like-a-stuffy-professor vibe. He looked mature. He was wearing really professional clothing. Richie thought that if he gave half a fuck he could pull that look off just as well as he could. But he didn’t, so. There was that.

And the dapper little wing-tipped oxford shoes were just too much, in Richie’s opinion.

Richie had never really thought of where he’d take Eddie out. He didn’t make a pass-time of imagining dates for his friends. He was mildly shocked at the ease of it, at the number of possible activities that popped into his mind. In his own defense, Richie genuinely knew Eddie would love the _shit_ out of a Batman themed date, that little nerd. Richie’s phone buzzed on the counter.

Richie really didn’t know what to make of the man in front of him. He wanted to ask his age, but it seemed tacky. He wanted to ask where the fuck he came from, but he sort of felt like he knew. Eddie had been well-dressed every morning that week and checked his hair in car mirrors. He always shook off the questions about it, answering that he was assisting in the offices. Richie found himself the smallest bit pissed that Eddie hadn’t even mentioned his apparent gentleman caller. But Noah couldn’t be blamed for that. And, despite looking like a sturdy, confident fellow, he seemed nervous about the entire thing. Richie also found his ego the smallest bit tickled that Eddie mentioned him often enough for Noah to rationalize Richie as the person to ask about Eddie. Enough so to go looking for him, even.

“Okay,” Richie wondered how long his mental monologue took. Did Noah say something? Richie couldn’t remember. Richie also didn’t care, so it was rather a moot point. “Keep the bat-mobile idea in the back of your mind,” he gesticulated to his head. Richie’s phone buzzed on the counter.

“Seems more like proposal material,” Noah joked lightly.

Richie’s heart skipped a beat and his hands froze. Whatever emotion you could call the rush of cold water that ran through his body must have shown on his face, because Noah held up his hands defensively.

“I’m kidding,” Noah assured quickly, “totally kidding. This is just a,” he rolled his hands around as he looked for the right word, “a thing for fun.”

Richie dropped his hands to his lap. He squinted at him, “exactly what kind of _fun_ are you looking to get into with _Eddie-_ ” Richie was not going to tolerate Eddie getting hit and quit. Not that that wasn’t what Richie did with most of his girls. But whatever, they weren’t _Eddie_.

“Ach- no,” Noah smacked a hand on his face. “I’m sorry-” if he weren’t a sort of annoying prat, Richie would have thought the fluster was cute. But something about the entire situation made his skin itchy. He could only assume it was Noah. It was probably that he put hair gel in curls. “I’m making a mess with my words.”

Good, because otherwise Richie would have made a mess of his face.

Richie’s phone was incesenantly buzzing, so he picked it up. He realized it was sort of rude, but either one of his friends was dying or there was a dog somewhere on the property.

**Ben 5:45 p.m.  
** **It’s happening  
** **Whaleburga  
** **6 sharp**

“Shit.” It was 5:50 p.m. “Alright, I’m about to miss Whaleburga and I will kill everyone in the vicinity if that happens.” He shoved the phone into his pocket. Noah laughed nervously. His curiosity was clearly piqued at the strange word, but he didn’t press the issue.

“Okay,” Richie looked up at him. He caught his eyes seriously. They were a bright green color. It was unsettling. “Ask him out for a Sunday brunch,” _‘Sonia would believe him if he said he was going out to church,’_ Richie thought. “It’’s not a thing, brunch, but Eds insists it is. It’s more casual than dinner, but not as casual as lunch.” _‘DON’T call him Eds,’_ Richie’s mind tacked on, “he likes the Far Side Grille.” So did Richie, but Eddie couldn’t know that. The club most of the time went to the diner on the other side of town. It was cheap and open 24 hours. But in the small historic district of Derry there was a small, over-priced, cozy coffee / breakfast shop. It opened at 6 a.m. and closed at 2 p.m. and plainly the club never made it out of the house before 1 p.m. on their free days. But Richie knew Eddie went there on his own more often than he’d admit.  “Eddie likes armchairs. There’s like three tables in the corner that have them.” He wasn’t stingy about sharing them, but if Eddie had his pick, he normally curled up in the armchair first. “Call ahead and ask them to set one aside, the place gets fucking crowded on weekends.” _‘He’ll probably be late,’_ Richie considered warning him but decided against it. _‘If he agrees to go,’_ he reasoned with his mind. He reminded himself there was always the possibility Eddie could say no. Richie didn’t think long about why he’d need that reminder in the first place. “If you order first and then ask him what he wants, and you order a coffee, he will too because he’s like that. What he really wants is an earl gray latte.”

“Okay, yes.” Noah had pulled out his own phone to jot down a few notes. “That is so helpful, thank you.” He looked joyous as he put the phone back into his pocket. “I know you have your...thing to get to. It was nice of you to talk.” He held out his hand for Richie to shake. Richie did not know what he did that told this guy he’d like to shake his hand, but he wished he did. So he could promptly put it on the _Never Fucking Do That Again_ list.

He shook the hand, and told him “good luck.” He wanted to say _‘be good to him,’_ but he thought that maybe his aggressive hand-shake kind of said it for him.

He turned away, walking up the path. He listened to the crunch of the gravel under his feet and not the buzzing going around in his mind. He did have something to say though, something that made sense from the whirlwind hurricane his thoughts were undergoing. “Hey, Noah!” He yelled, calling from several yards away.

“Yeah?”  
Richie took a deep breath, “make sure you watch the Dark Knight trilogy, if you haven’t.” And what he really thought was _‘and if you already haven’t you should give up because you and Eddie will never work.’_

But he didn’t say that.

* * *

 Richie loved Whaleburga, everyone knew that. But honestly, so did Ben. Ben wasn't sure if everyone knew that or just Mike.

But really, they all loved Whaleburga.

Whaleburga was a game made up when they all, coincidentally, working in the square their first year of the Faire. That year, Beverly worked at the jeweler, Stan and Ben worked at the ice-cream shop, Richie sold dragon puppets, Mike and Eddie sold lemonade, and Bill, the only one to keep the same job three years running, worked at the glass blower's. The square was right at the gates of the Faire and it was always a lively place to be. The club managed to create a fair share shenanigans in addition to that.

In the center of the square was a fountain with a large witch statue in the middle. She was named Walburga. Mike told him that meant _ruler of the fortress_ in some language. It was a fitting name. She had one hand stirring a spoon in an enormous cauldron. That's where the water would flow, during Faire hours. After hours the water was just shut off. Her other hand was held up, palm open, as if she were casting a spell. 

Richie loved that statue, and insisted if you watched it long enough she would explain to mysteries of life. Stan found it horrendously irritating. 

Ben didn't so much care for the statue itself, but loved the game.

Bill had started it. Ben honestly didn't remember why or how - sometimes that's the way the best things were. He just remembered Bill having a a putter and a golf ball, and climbing the side of his stand on the one day they got in trouble and everyone had to stay late.  

The rules of Whaleburga were very simple. You had to climb one of the stands and balance on the roof well enough to hit your golf ball at the statue. There was no penalty for falling off the roof other than pain. Ben had several times. The stands weren't that tall, though. If you got your ball in the cauldron, you got a point. If you got it in her hand, which only happened once, hit by Mike, then it was an automatic win of the game. There were exactly seven rounds. That was Richie's insistence. And it was _only_ played with all seven of them. Richie had a weird thing about sevens. It was called Whaleburga because most of the time, the golf balls hit the witch. Poor Walburga took quite the whaling. 

Mike insisted they make it quick, pretending this game was a detriment to his job. It probably was, but Mike more liked it than plain tolerating it, otherwise he wouldn't let them keep the golf-clubs Bev and Stan stole from a country club that summer on the premises. They hid them in a shed. Ben had a feeling upper management, higher than Mike, knew they played. Ben also got the feeling they played the game, too. Because it was fun. It was danger golf.

Bill showed up barely being able to contain the smile on his face. Bev knocked her shoulder into his and said a small "congrats." Ben looked away. Mike wrapped an arm over his shoulder. Stan came down from the offices with a new story to tell about his irritating coworker Pat. 

Richie showed up out of breath and red-faced, but on time. Eddie showed up a few minutes after, power-walking out of the offices.

"Only four minutes late," Stan commented, glancing at his watch.

"Nice." Bill nodded. 

They wasted no time. Bev whistled. That was part of it too, she always whistled. And they were off. 

Logically, Ben knew it was the dumbest thing likely in the history of the Faire. Except maybe the stand that sold tails people could attach to their pants. But as he got numerous splinters, and broke out in a sweat trying to keep his legs balanced on the slanted roof of the puppet stand, he found himself laughing. They always did when they played. There was indistinguishable laughter and shouts and he couldn't have told you his own joyous voice from anyone else's, and maybe that's what Ben loved so much about it. They did it together, always together, and they were always one when they did. They weren't various couples or people who were stressed about co-workers or new love. They were just a tight knit weave, where the warp was each other and the weft was love. Ben always felt like he belonged. Ben always felt like he was a part of something.

Something really, _really_ stupid.

But apart of something nonetheless. 

And that was what mattered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n  
> hi!!! y'all can ask me the story that happened irl that brought about whaleburga in this fic because its sort of wild. i am !!! so tickled ?? by the feedback ~~ ahh! thank u to the power of a thousand if u left comments before. i find them so encouraging. literally if you are having fun & indulging in this Nonsense with me thank u so much. 
> 
> as always, if you want to watch me be weird and post layouts of the denbrough house and make up weird work games my tumblr is tossertozier always //reddie// (lmao) for friendship!


	7. Chapter 7

“Alright, alright.” Richie slammed open the door to his home, walking in with a big, sweeping arm gesture. “I’m here, hold your applause.” He announced to an empty living room. The beige couch mocked him. “Well, fuck,” he dropped his arms, planting his hands on his hips. He tapped his foot with annoyance, “if this doesn’t give me flashbacks…”

“Calm down, Rich-” he heard his father’s voice from up the stairs. “Your Dad is old now, he doesn’t move that fast.” 

“Well, you best be hurryin’” He didn’t know what it was about his dad that made him break out the ol’ southern accent, but it hadn’t been exercised in a while. He plopped down into the armchair while he waited, “the corn’s ripe for pickin’, Pa.” 

He heard his dad taking careful steps down the stairs. “Well, then” he drawled back in a similar accent. Richie never realized just how bad some of his accents were until they were parroted back to him via his father, “we best get shuckin’, boy.” His dad reached the landing. He was wearing a pair of casual jeans and a sweater and glasses that weren't too different from Richie's own. Richie laughed shallowly. His dad rubbed a hand over his mustache as he sat on the couch. It took him longer than it used to. 

“Sup,” Richie threw his feet up on the coffee table, “pops?” 

His dad’s eyes flicked to the worn boots. If Richie were still a freshman, this would have caused a fight that would last  _ hours _ . He and his parents could play a fun game of  _ who yells louder  _ for seemingly centuries. Went shrugged, and reached out to untie a boot. 

“Can’t I want to see my son?” He untied the other boot, and grabbed a shoelace from both boots. To tie them together.

And Richie’s friends wondered where he got it from.

He swotted his father’s hands off with a laugh, returning his feet to the floor “skrrt-” Richie mimicked the sound of a radio into the cuff of his shirt, “Raw Rich to homebase, skrrrt-” he used the toe of his boot to kick the one untied boot off his foot, “message received.” 

“Skrrt-” His dad repeated, speaking into his own cuff, “put your shoes by the door while you’re at it, skrrt.” 

Richie felt the innate, childish need to challenge his parent. He ultiamtely did what he was told, picking up the boots and bringing them to the door. He heard the sounds of his dad standing behind him, moving towards the kitchen. “How’s the Faire? How’s Bill?”

“The Faire is the Faire again,” Richie quoted something, but he had no idea what. He followed his dad into the kitchen, padding softly in his nasty sock behind him. “Bill got a new job at the Faire.”

“Hm,” Went added water from the faucet into their electric kettle. “I thought that boy was content to stay exactly the same. He’s had the same haircut, same job, same crush, same undrivable car, for the last three years.” Richie mulled that over. It was true. Richie hadn’t put much thought into it. Richie quite liked the way things were, actually. He didn’t see a great need for things to change. “And the rest of your friends?” 

_ Eddie’s got a date with a boy this weekend _ was the first piece of news to pop into his mind. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if Went particularly knew about Eddie’s preferences. Or particularly cared. It wasn’t exactly monumental. Richie had no idea why it was on his mind. “They’re good. Stan is stressed.”

His dad put the kettle on the stove, “isn’t he always?” He asked. It was a genuine question. He knew his parents had a difficult time remembering which friend was which.

Richie sat down at his kitchen table, “yeah.” He tapped his fingers in a nervous beat on the woodwork. “Where’s Mom?” 

“She’s home,” Went answered. Richie had talked to her on the phone for 20 minutes. He wasn’t clamoring to talk again. Went grabbed a chipped blue mug from the cabinet. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

“Nah.” Not that sad leaf water wasn’t fun, it really was, but it was never particularly Richie’s thing. His dad struggled to remember that. 

“So,” his dad prepped his own cup, dropping a tea bag in. “Are you feeling prepared to leave for school?” He turned around, leaning back on the counter top. 

_ No. _ Richie’s mind told him as he said “yeah, I think so. I have to buy shit for the dorm.” Went’s mouth opened to correct his swear, Richie saw it. He seemed to decide he didn’t care, and dropped it.

“Mhmm,” Went licked his lips and nodded, “how much will that be, about?” He grabbed his wallet from his back pocket. 

“Three thousand dollars.” Richie answered cheekily. His mother appeared in the door that led to the garden. “Hey, Mags.” He greeted cheerfully.

“Richie,” she scoffed, looking sour and disappointed. She took off a pair of gardening gloves and hung them by the door. “I am your mother, don’t call me that.” 

“Just Maggie?” He asked.

She scowled at him. He was going to laugh about it, until he saw his dad’s sour expression, and he was refolding up his wallet. “Wait!” Richie insisted, holding his hands out, “it was a joke. You’re the _best_ Mommy and Daddy in the _entire_ world and your doting son would _never_ say otherwise.” He cheesed, smiling angelically as he put his chin on his hands. 

“Went,” Maggie looked at his dad, spotting the wallet. Her foul mood worsened, “you were not about to give him money, were you?” She busied herself even though there wasn’t much to be doing. She just shifted the table settings and flower arrangement on the table.

“He needs it for college!” Went insisted, not returning his wallet to his pocket. 

“He has a job.”

“As the _idiot_ at a _Renaissance Faire_.”

“Hey,” Richie whined. His parents ignored him. 

“We should be counting our blessings he’s going to school at all.” Went grumbled, leafing through the bills in his wallet. “How much, Richie? Two, three hundred?” His dad always had way too much money on him in cash. It was a miracle he hadn’t been robbed.

Maggie looked furious that she wasn’t being more carefully listened to. “The two of you,” she snatched up a magazine from the kitchen counter. It seemed like she mostly did it to be noisy. “I will never understand-” she grouched as she stormed off. It would be a bigger fight later, Richie would bet money on it. She’d passive aggressively bring it up at dinner. He’d respond snappily. The three of them would be yelling by 10 p.m. He could only imagine Maggie’s face when he told her how much text books would be.

“Three, please.” Richie said to his dad.

The kettle whistled behind Went as he handed the money to his son. 

“So, what’s for dinner?” Richie asked casually. 

* * *

**Bev 12:49 p.m.  
** **Ange**

**Bev 1:03 p.m.  
** **Is it alright if i spend the night at bills?  
** **The clubs hanging out.** **  
**

**Clara 1:05 p.m.  
** **Hmmm….**

**Bev 1:08 p.m.  
** **Don’t worry  
** **We’re only doing crack before the orgy  
** **NO meth this time**

**Clara 1:10 p.m.  
** **Hi richie  
** **Tell bev i said yes  
** **Make sure she brings home the extra crack.**

Bev wrestled her phone back from Richie and almost cackled at her aunt’s sarcastic response. It was too weird to call her Clara and too formal to call her Aunt Clara. They settled on Ange. It was close enough to aunt, it was french, which Clara loved, and it meant angel, which felt accurate to Bev.

**Bev 1:12 p.m.  
** **I’ll be home for lunch on saturday <3**

It really did.

* * *

“Why,” Stan felt mildly horrified, moreso than he did usually, when he stepped into the attic on that Friday night. “Does it smell like shit in here?” Richie and Bill were sitting on the pull-out bed, looking invested in a game of Super Smash Brothers. They were leaned in intensely.

“Stan, stop flirting with me.” Richie replied. Bill just leaned in closer to the television, swearing when Richie’s Lucario crushed Bill’s Samus. Stan was impressed the game even still ran. They were playing it on a gamecube. Stan stepped to the side so Mike could finish climbing into the attic.

Mike sniffed the air, “it literally smells like trash in here…” He drawled, looking around suspiciously. “Why.”

Richie lost. He flopped backwards with despair. Bill turned back to their friends with a nervous look “...n-no reason” he answered. His eyes flicked over to the small table by the couch. On it was the most atrocious lamp Stan had ever seen. It appeared to be a hollowed out lawn flamingo wearing a party hat, covered in what seemed to be stickers of cats doing extreme sports. 

He squinted at it, and turned back to Bill slowly “...did you guys find that in a dumpster?” He asked plainly. He wasn’t exactly surprised. Bill and Richie were what they called treasure hunters and what any sane person would call possessed by the souls of raccoons, and loved trash. Mike just seemed to be fascinated by the lamp itself. He stepped towards it with wonder.

“NO!” Richie announced defensively from his spot laying on the bed. “We found it at the DUMP,” only Richie could actively be defending the dump, “we have SOME self respect.” Bill grabbed his bottle of water from the bed and took a swig as he nodded.

“WHY,” Mike stood backup as he asked his question. He, Bev and Eddie were the only people that could stand to their full heights in the attic “were you guys at the dump?!”

“MIKE-” Richie stood up, and gestured to the lamp emphatically “have you SEEN this LAMP” 

Stan stared incredulously in between Bill, Richie, and the lamp “...THAT’S NOT WORTH IT.” He told Richie loudly.

* * *

When Eddie got to the Denbrough house that evening, he was surprised to find everyone in the living room. He was late. He had an hour long fight with his mother about going out that evening. He didn’t know what he was going to do on Sunday morning. But even just the thought of it made his insides squirm, which was a gross metaphor but it was true. It was a pleasant squirm, like worms in warm mud- you know what, no, ew. Eddie thought that was an even worse metaphor.

He was greeted cheerfully by the room. He walked over to the guys at the table, watching Bill wince and press at his hands while Mike smiled victoriously. 

“Hey, guys,” Eddie greeted casually, zipping up his hoodie. He looped his arms around Mike’s neck as a half-hug. Mike tugged him down and kissed his cheek, clearly giddy from his win. Eddie laughed. 

Bill and Mike were sitting at the kitchen table playing a game Stan hated called knuckles. A player spun a coin, and they took turns flicking it to keep it spinning. Whoever caused it to drop had to put their knuckles on the counter and let the other person slide the coin at them. It always ended in bleeding. 

Eddie headed towards Stan, who was flicking through his phone on the couch. He asked Stan quickly why everyone was in the living room. He muttered something incoherently about a fight that apparently involved flamingos? 

Eddie didn’t press the issue. 

They weren’t doing particularly anything, as they were prone to do. Bev was sitting with Ben on the floor, laughing as she scrolled through the music on his phone. Richie’s phone was playing music over the bluetooth speakers the Denbroughs had by the t.v. Eddie already recognized the playlist. 

Richie was sitting next to Stan. He was pressed into the corner of the couch, one knee bent up, and his barefoot pressed into the couch, the other on the floor. He watched him for a moment. He was wearing a green henley with various holes in it, and his glasses were close to falling off his nose. He missed him, a little bit. But Eddie knew that was his own fault. He had been very, pleasantly, distracted the last two weeks.

He plopped down in between Richie’s legs. Just far enough away to be commonly socially acceptable. Richie didn’t look up from his phone. 

Eddie pulled out his own phone. He didn’t actually have any business to attend to on his phone. He favorited a few tweets, flicking his eyes up at Richie every few seconds. And then he got bored of that, so he dropped his phone on the coffee table, and flicked the top of Richie’s. 

Richie raised an eyebrow, finally looking up at Eddie. “Can I help you, spaghetti?’ 

Eddie scoffed, “you can barely help yourself, Rich.” He turned his body a little bit, as if he hadn’t been the one to start the conversation. He could practically hear Richie’s eye-roll as he set his phone down on the coffee table.

“How was your day, Eddie darling?” Richie prattled monotonously, sounding like a husband who had to listen to his wife ramble every day. Eddie laughed in spite of himself and swiped at Richie.

“Shut up,” he rolled his own eyes, but shuffled closer to Richie. “It was okay. I have to go back to the stands on Monday.” 

“Anything…” Richie pressed his lips together, like he was considering his word choice for his next question, “exciting happen today?” 

Eddie felt like his face was blushing but he didn’t know if it actually was. He got the feeling Richie knew about something, but the only thing that happened, there would be no way for Richie to know about it. He hadn’t even told Ben, yet, and Ben had gotten really invested in the whole  _ Eddie and Noah  _ thing.  _ Eddie&Noah _ , his mind mulled over, like that was a complete statement. “...no.” He answered after too long a pause. 

Richie raised his eyebrows. He shrugged. “Okay.” 

“How was your day, Rich?” Eddie turned in more. He was finally sitting close enough, the place where he’d actually sit on a normal day. He felt like if there was something off between him and Richie before, it melted. Richie pat his thigh and began to talk.

“Okay, so Katie had to cut this guy off at the stand... Because I may or may not have made a joke about his penis that he didn’t appreciate. So he goes and buys his own food and comes back-”

“Guys,” Bill and Mike were returning to the room. Mike padded over past Bill to the couch, and sat in between Eddie and Stan. They constantly pushed the boundaries of that three-cushion couch. He nicked Stan’s phone out of his hand, and pressed the lock button quickly. “Super Smash brothers tournament?” Bill suggested, biting into a granola bar. 

“DIBS ON KIRBY,” Ben announced loudly. The room giggled. No one had the heart to tell Ben Kirby was not a desirable character to anyone but him. 

“Who lost last time?” Bev asked, dropping Ben’s phone back in his lap. They had an uneven number. It impacted a lot of games they played. Whoever lost the last round got to automatically skip the first round. 

“Mike.”

“In my defense, I got told by a LIAR-” he glared at Bev, “that Yoshi was the ultimate un-lockable character.” The room peeled into laughter at his outrage. 

“In Bev’s defense,” Eddie replied, patting Mike’s shoulder with solace, “that’s a fucking stupid thing to believe.” Richie seemed to laugh harder. He pressed his face into Eddie’s shoulder and grabbed his arm. 

“Fun fact:” Stan sat up, looking enthralled at the chance to share some sort of knowledge he picked up, more than likely, on the internet “did you know the longest piece of literature, not published, mind you, is a piece of Super Smash Brothers fanfiction on fanfiction dot net?” 

“What’s it about?” Ben asked, seeming genuinely curious.

“I haven’t Read It, Ben!” Stan sounded down-right offended at the notion he had, “IT’S FOUR MILLION WORDS LONG.” 

Bev laughed so hard she clapped.

“I wonder what the couple is,” Bill mused through his laughter. He crinkled up the wrapper from his bar and shoved it into his pocket. Eddie could feel Stan's wince even though he was two people away on the couch. 

“Probably, like, Peach and Mario.” Ben shrugged.

“Nah, nah.” Bev smacked his arm, “it’s gotta be like. Peach and Bowser, or something weird.”

“How is Peach and Bowser weird?” Richie shuffled forward. He grabbed Eddie’s ribs and maneuvered him so he could more comfortably sit up. “She’d  _ totally  _ fuck Bowser.” 

“I’d fuck Bowser,” Stan shrugged as he joked in the dry sense of humor they had. The room collapsed in laughter again, until there was a clatter of a door swinging shut. As far as Eddie could tell, no one had seen the white-faced, completely flabbergasted Georgie Denbrough enter the room. Or his friend who was standing a step and a half behind him. 

“I’m so sorry,” Georgie told his friend, grabbing him and all but shoving him towards the stairs. “My brother and his friends are fucking freaks.” Georgie had a more interesting aesthetic going for him every time Eddie saw him. Currently, he was wearing a matching track suit that was dark maroon, and a blue striped shirt underneath. His hair was dirty blonde, and cut in a way not unsimilar to how Bill's was when he was Georgie's age, short on the sides, long on top. Georgie's was just more artistically swooped back. 

“Hey, George!!” Bill called out. Richie groaned and shoved his face in his hands. He had heard Bill’s attempts to bond with Georgie had only gotten more embarrassing that summer. They were bad enough to begin with. 

“WHAT,” Georgie snapped as he turned around, “Bill?”

“H-how was your day?”

“Fine.”

Bill’s eyes settled on the wrist that Georgie was holding. It was that of the tan boy behind him. Eddie felt something like dread tumble into his chest, like when you watch a car crash but you can’t look away. And it felt like this particular car crash was with a clown car full of kittens and a truck filled with ice cream Eddie loved. 

“Who’s t-this?” Bill asked.

“This is David.” George answered curtly.

“Hi, David,” Bill had to bend down a little bit awkwardly so he could offer his hand for David to shake. David, curly black hair and a very confused expression, grabbed his hand uncomfortably. “I’m happy you’re here,” Bill told him with an over-supportive, overly-gentle voice. 

“Oh my god,” Eddie muttered. He was proven wrong. It was a car crash he literally couldn’t watch. He turned around, and shoved his face into Richie’s neck. Richie was huffing he was trying so hard not to laugh. The rest of the club was in a similar state. 

“...okay.” David responded. Bev straight up guwaffed into her hand, pressing it over her mouth. 

“What are you guys going to do tonight?”

“None of your business.” Georgie snapped back. He looked out at his brother’s friends try their goddamned hardest not to laugh, and his little bitter face got even more sour. His eyes landed on something beyond Eddie. “...hi Mike,” he greeted, and then turned away. Eddie actually choked in his attempt to keep from laughing. “Come on, David.” They all waited for the inevitable _slam_ of Georgie’s door, before the room burst back out into laughter.

“Bill,” Eddie spluttered out. He got hardcore flashbacks of the week he came out and their high school drama department was, like, ten minutes away from throwing a pride parade even though Eddie had never been in a play. “What the _fuck_ was that?!”

* * *

 

"Having a cigarette after your grand loss?" Beverly asked him. He was sitting at the patio furniture the Denbroughs had in their backyard. He had just lost a particularly arduous battle of Super Smash Brothers with Stan. "You're a cliche, Tozier." She told him with a smirk, while grabbing her own cigarette out of his carton. 

He said nothing and slid the lighter towards her. 

"What's on your mind?" She asked. She hovered above him, tempted to settle in on his lap. He was positioned slightly too forward for her to be able to do that. She'd wait. 

"The impending doom of the robot war," he answered, the smoke splashing out of his mouth. The Denbrough family had nice tiling on their patio, with little intricate designs. She ran her foot along one spiral as she took a slow drag of her cig. 

She got bored of waiting, and pushed Richie's shoulder back herself, saying "ah, yes. The inevitable." She plopped into his lap, curling up. It took him a second, but he wrapped his free arm around her waist. He settled his head on her shoulder. "Now tell me really what's up." 

"If you wanted this," he jostled her jokingly for a second, "all you had to do is ask, Marsh." He kissed her neck gently. "I'm yours." 

"Stop avoiding my question," Bev loved having her neck kissed. Richie knew that. Richie and her had made out often their first summer of the Faire, each time declaring it was the last. And then, one day, it just was the last time. And Bev had known it, and she thought, so had Richie. Some sort of current hummed between them whenever they were together. She had been a little disappointed when she figured out it wasn't _true love_. It was love of it's own kind, but not the sort of story where you get married at the end. After that, they settled into their relationship they had now. She knew, quite clearly, they'd never kiss again. She also knew that he knew that. She also knew that that didn't bother of either of them. She didn't know what they were. She didn't know what their relationship was. She didn't think they made a Hallmark card for it. But it was theirs. 

"I don't think it's my question to answer," he finally responded honestly. He let his hand fall on her hip, taking another drag of his cigarette. She watched him. He had chapped lips and a more serious expression than he had had in a while. 

"Oh." She answered, licking her own lips absent-mindedly. "One of...?" She tilted her head towards the house. 

He nodded curtly. 

"Did someone do something?"

"Nah, nah." He sat up a little more, shaking his own head. He was probably lost in a tangle of thoughts. "Of course not." 

"Oh," she didn't say anything further, because she could see it on Trashmouth's face, he was losing his composure. He'd crack in three, two, on-

"I set Eddie up on a date for Sunday but he doesn't know that I was involved."

She should have known it would be about Eddie. Her immediate reaction was another _oh_ , but only in her mind. She took a long drag of her cigarette to avoid saying anything, because she didn't know what to say. Eddie really hadn't dated anyone since he came out. They were in entirely new territory. Bev had thought, actually, that they wouldn't hit this territory together. She thought this would be more of a winter break problem, because college was starting in the fall.

If there was a last thing Richie wanted to be reminded of at the moment, Bev knew it was college. 

"Well," she said after a moment, after she was sure Richie wasn't going to say anything further. "That's good for Eddie."

"It is."

_How is it for Richie?_ Her mind burned to ask. But she knew Richie hated, down-right abhorred to be asked how he was feeling. If there was one thing to be sure of with Richie Tozier, it was that if he had something to say, he would say it. They smoked silently. Wind brushed through trees and crickets chirped in the grass. Bev could see just beyond in the grass, faint flashes of fireflies. She realized if they turned out the porch light, they'd be able to see a ton of them. Richie didn't say anything. He stared contemplatively up at the sky. There wasn't much to see. It was a cloudy night. 

"We're gonna stalk the shit out of that date, right?" She asked finally, thinking of a question she could ask.

"Oh, absolutely." He assured. He nodded, still not turning to look at her.

_You're not mine,_ Bev thought as the last of her cigarette drew down. _You're not smoking cigarettes in the dark by yourself thinking of me._

But she'd let him figure that out on his own. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bill: i aM tRyiNG to Be aN AlLY!!!!
> 
> ahh!! helo friends!! thanks for reading! and thanks ~ to those of you who commented ... i was beaming so frickin hard when i got the emails ahhh they make my day sooo much... but seriously: thoughts on this date, tho? thoughts on BoWsEr?? bowser/stan is getting added to the tags. im KIDDING i love y'all hope ur skies are blue today.!


	8. Chapter 8

 

Bill, in a sick twist of irony or fate or something like that, had to leave all of his friends asleep in his house that Saturday morning. He had to drive Georgie to musical rehearsal. He wasn’t aware Georgie had auditioned for a musical. Bill really wasn’t aware anyone did musicals in Derry. Bill could probably not name more than five musicals if his life depended on it. 

“What’s your part in the play?” Bill asked, making a cautious turn. He was always cautious driving, but especially driving Georgie and especially in his dad’s car. Georgie was wearing a Jersey for a team that played in San Francisco, because Georgie was apparently very in favor of a blossoming sense of irony.

“It’s not a play,” Georgie crossed his arms, rolling his eyes. “It’s a musical.”

“What’s your part in the musical?” Bill asked again, keeping his tone even. He was tempted to just turn up the volume of the radio station he had tuned into. He went with pop. He had a feeling Georgie wouldn’t go for the soft alternative rock that frequented Bill’s spotify playlists.

“Winthrop.” Georgie rolled his eyes again.

Bill had no idea who or what Winthrop was but Georgie didn’t seem keen on explaining. He turned up the dial on the radio. Georgie scoffed. 

Bill glanced over with concern. “What’s up?”

“You have trash taste in music, Billy.” On the one hand, Georgie called the music trash. On the other hand, he called him Billy. Bill could genuinely not remember the last time Georgie did that. 

Bill clicked off the music “wanna p-pick?” He pointed to the aux chord he put in his dad’s car so the directions would play over the speaker when he navigated places, because looking at his phone almost ended in a crash like, three times. 

Georgie huffed, but picked it up anyway. He clicked the system back on, and scrolled through his phone. When he was satisfied with his choice, he clicked play, and the music flooded the car. It wasn’t a show-tune. Bill had no idea what to expect. It was mellow and soft with a thumping beat.

“ _ What if, what if we run away? What if, what if we left today? What if we said good-bye to safe and sound _ ?”

“So, is your friend David in your-” Bill’s sentence got cut off by Georgie slowly turning the volume dial up. Bill sighed, looking back to the road. He could take a hint. 

“ _ My youth, my youth is yours. Sippin’ on skies, trippin’ waterfalls- _ ”

Bill felt some sort of small victory that Georgie had chosen a song to share with him at all. Bill would look it up later, he thought.

* * *

 

The farm had one computer in the sitting room and it moved at the pace of a 2 legged sheep. Mike was sitting there patiently anyway, texting Stan and Bev about Eddie’s date tomorrow. He felt a little bad he was letting himself get wrapped up in something that really wasn’t his business, but it was Loser business which made it feel like everyone’s business.

It was strange to Mike that Eddie hadn’t brought it up. In fact, none of the losers seemed to get credited with that honor. Or if he had told someone about it, they hadn’t said something. 

The farm was so full of white noise and people that the chances of being alone were honestly slim to none. People, specifically his grandparents, managed to sneak up on Mike constantly, and he was never the wiser. He no longer jumped when someone surprised him in the room. It was a common-place piece of his life in the well naturally lit, wicker-covered, plaid-filled, actual-fresh fruit basketed living room. 

“Mike,” his grandpa said over his shoulder, “what are you doing?”

Mike looked up. His screen had loaded. It was up on University of Chicago’s history program. He swallowed a lump in his throat.

“I, uh. I was just messing around.” He closed the tab quickly, hopefully before his grandpa could read it. His heart lurched, because he’d have to wait another six or seven minutes for it to load again, but it would be worth it to avoid a lecture.

“You’ lookin’ at colleges again?”

“I don’t know,” Mike shrugged. He didn’t want to lie and also didn’t want to argue. 

“I thought we agreed you was stayin’ on the farm?” Grandpa had to grab the back of Mike’s chair for support. He was really getting up there in the years. “Somebody has-

“Has too,” Mike finished with him, nodding. “I know.”

Doing things because  _ somebody has to  _ seemed to have become a staple in Mike’s life. 

* * *

 

It was an ungodly hour on a Sunday morning and Richie was fully dressed. He was chipper even. He made himself a cup of joe, or hot chocolate as Men called it, in the Denbrough Keurig, and hopped his way back up the stairs. Mr and Mrs. D weren’t even awake. Bill had slept in his own bed the night prior after a frankly ruthless battle of C.O.D. Bill looked tired, even while asleep. Richie shut his door and dropped his mug on Bill’s desk, approaching stealthily. Bill, and the rest of the club, had gone to sleep late as fuck on Friday, but Bill woke up and played Big Brother. 

“ _ Bill _ ,” he tickled under the boy...man’s chin, Richie corrected. What a fucking weird thought, he never wanted to have it again. “ _ Billy _ ,” he whispered, tickling gently. “ _ Up and at ‘em… _ ” 

“Die, Rich.” Bill sounded fully awake as he rolled over to the other side of the bed. It wasn’t an invitation, but Richie took it as one, throwing himself into Bill’s twin bed and spooning him. He dipped his hands under the covers and pressed them into Bill’s bare stomach.

“Ach, fuck, Rich.” Bill squirmed, “why are you so damn cold all the time?” Bill had the same plaid blue comforter that he had in 8th grade. Richie found the entire sight somewhat comforting.

“I’m part lizard.” Richie explained easily. It was not comforting enough to go back to sleep, as Richie had Plans. Big Plans, even. Ones he’d need Bill Awake for. He sat up suddenly, yanking down the covers as far as they would come, and poking at Bill’s chest. “C’mon,” he jabbed his fingers as if they were small fencing swords, “if you get up now you can shower because Stan is going to pick us up and Mike is meeting us at the shoppe with Bev.” Bill turned into his pillow, groaning, remembering the Losers had collectively decided to stalk poor Eddie on what was probably considered his first real date. Richie took the opportunity to bounce up and down on the bed, “Up, Bill, UP! Our boy needs us!”

“He’s your f-fucking boy,” Bill grumbled into the pillow “not mine.”

Richie blinked. “I’m not going to pretend i know what you mean by that.” He didn’t. He hadn’t the foggiest idea. Richie felt uncomfortable in the quiet that followed, as if BIll were specifically avoiding saying whatever was on his mind. Whatever it was musn’t have been that important, because he rolled his shoulders back and gave up again. 

Bill groaned again, but turned his head just barely, so he could peak open one eye at Richie. “Ten minutes?” It, again, wasn’t an invitation, but Richie took it as one. He flopped down, curling over Bill. They hadn’t done that in a while, but it certainly wasn’t their first time. 

“Yeah,” he yawned, smiling to himself when Bill tucked his head under his chin, “ten minutes.” 

* * *

“I,” Bill said through a gross mouthful of bacon, “forgot how much I love this place.” Stan shot him a look. Bill swallowed thickly. Stan rolled his eyes, but smiled as he handed him a napkin.

The food  _ was  _ good there. Bill had been talking about the bacon sandwich he had there since the last time they went, despite all of Mike’s very Vegetarian warning looks. Stan had his suspicions that Richie chose it to recommend to Noah because they all liked it, but also, because it had a convenient, small second story that overlooked the main room. 

_Noah_. Stan didn’t know how to feel about the fact that Eddie was going on a date with someone he hadn’t bothered to introduce to any of them. Even Ben said that they only really met by chance. Stan supposed he had every right to exclude them from that part of his life, but he didn’t think they necessarily did anything to deserve it. 

Richie was wearing all black and Bev smudged spy eye-liner on his cheeks like war paint.

Okay, so at least not everyone did anything to deserve it. 

Ben was the only one missing. His mom was demanding his presence at service that morning. Stan had gone to synagogue yesterday afternoon because he was still very brilliantly masquerading as jew-ish, as he, too, ate a bacon sandwich. The Denbrough’s hadn’t been religious since Bill’s accident when he was like, 3. Stan still didn’t know a lot about it. Mike stopped going to service when he came of age, Richie was literally the worst catholic in the world, and Stan honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if Bev’s Aunt Clara was a satanist. Eddie rarely talked about his mom, but when she demanded his presence for things, it wasn’t for church. 

They only had vague notions to go off of regarding Eddie’s arrival time. Bev had very sneakily requested to hang out that morning and Eddie said he was tied up until maybe 12:30 p.m., but he’d text her when he was done. 

Richie had made them get there at 10:30 a.m. despite the very sane argument that no one eats breakfast for two hours. Brunch, he had reminded them, brunch.

After a solid forty five minutes, Richie sat up quickly. And they all looked up with interest. RIchie, very obviously, shoved them back down into the two couches they were occupying on the second floor with exaggerated shushing noises. 

It wasn’t Eddie, so it had to be Noah. He talked to the guy behind the counter without ordering. They were just slightly too far, and the place was slightly too busy, to hear. The guy pointed out a table in the corner. Noah smiled. Not that Stan wasn’t entirely faithful in Eddie’s game, but Noah was more handsome than he was expecting. He had no idea that’s where Eddie’s tastes were at. He was expecting someone who looked a little bit more like a muppet who was doing his best, he thought, with a quick glance to Richie.

“He’s not wearing a tie,” Richie muttered, noting to Bev.

“Richie, it’s  _ breakfast _ .” Mike reasoned. 

“It’s brunch.”

“Weren’t you the one so adamant that brunch doesn’t exist literally last week?” Bev asked, adjusting the raw fish on her bagel. Bev had picked up strange dieting habits from her Aunt, but she swore it was all the rage in the cities.

“He looks good anyway,” Stan changed the subject before Richie retorted with something inevitably stupid. “I wonder how he does his hair.” It was wavy, curled even, but neatly swept back, but without looking crunch from gel. 

“I like t-that shirt.” Bill agreed, nodding towards Noah's grey button down. His fingers twitched towards the last bite of Stan’s bacon sandwich. Stan flicked his ear. 

“He’s alright. He’s fine.” Richie waved them off. “He’s a little much, don’t you think? He’s trying too hard.”

“You were just complaining about ties, Richie.” Bill reminded him. He ate a bacon fleck off of his plate. Stan looked at him despairingly. Bill smiled in response. 

“I think he’s hot,” Bev leaned forward, nearing the railing that separated the loft from the floor. She tucked a foot up under her plum colored dress. She wrapped her fingers around the rods. “Go Eddie.”

“Yeah, well of course he’s good looking.” Richie shoved back into his seat, looking defensive. “I just didn’t expect him for this is all,” Stan corrected that in his mind too: Richie didn’t expect Eddie to date anyone at all, “I thought Eddie’s first like...romantic encounter would be like some random kid we all knew at a party or something, I don’t know.”

“Just because you’ll bang anything vaguely human shaped with a pulse doesn’t mean he will, Rich.” Mike replied, with a little wry grin at his own joke. He drank from his cup and frowned when he realized it was empty. It was the third time he had done that. 

“Not true,” Richie looked affronted. Stan thought for a horrendous moment that he was going to begin defending his sexuality and it just was too early for that, “and yet, not entirely unfair.” After a long moment, there it came “ _ woman _ shaped,” he corrected. Of course it came eventually, it always did. 

Mike shrugged, shuffling the hands of his green sweater over his palm. He put his chin in his palm and looked back down to the floor. “He’s early,” he observed. The place was getting busier. Setting aside a table was officially imperative, and they were getting death glares due to their empty cups and plates. The place was crowded on Sunday mornings, just about every breakfast spot in Derry was. Sundays just screamed brunch to people, apparently. That or Sundays screamed sleep long enough to forget Saturday night, to the other half of the population, Stan thought. 

On Stan's other side, Bill reached out and grabbed the arm of a girl passing by. “Excuse me, Miss?” He stood up. Bill was wearing a baseball shirt and jeans. Stan thought the entire thing with the baseball shirts was sort of misleading. Bill didn’t play baseball. The closest thing Bill got to playing a sport was excessive rounds of Fifa with Richie and half-assed trips to the gym.

“Uh-” she looked defensive when she turned, but her eyes softened when they landed on Bill. “oh. Hi.” She greeted sweetly. Stan couldn’t help it, he looked to Bev. She was watching the exchange with the same somewhat apathetic curiosity that Stan was. 

“I’d like to, uh, b-buy you a c-coffee-” Bill was reaching for his wallet. The girl, with brown hair put up in a bun and shorter than Bev, flushed. Richie was also flushing, but in a much less attractive, angry way. Probably because Bill was using his stake out to hit on women. 

“...okay,” she said with a smile. 

“So,” he pushed a 20 into her hand. “I c-can’t go down there b-because of reasons, but if you could get me a b-bacon sandwich, feel free to get yourself whatever you l-l-like.” Mike snorted into his hand. Beverly laughed quietly into her shoulder. Stan just raised an eyebrow, and a staff member cleared away their two empty sandwich plates.

“Oh-oh?” Her eyebrows furrowed. “...Okay?” She looked confused, but ultimately, the man had offered her a free coffee. Stan hoped she took the money and kept walking, because that would have been hilarious. It had nothing to do with the fact he hadn’t been offered another bacon sandwich. Not at all. He coughed into his hand.

Bill glanced down at him, and then back up “make that two.” 

“Oh!” Richie sat up, “if you’re making a run, love,” he winked at her, and her interest in their group seemed mildly renewed, “grab me a white hot chocolate?” Bill sighed, reaching into his wallet for another twenty.

“I’ll take another cappuccino,” Bev asked shyly. She shifted the direction of her legs from watching Noah to being somewhat curled into Richie. The girl looked intrigued in between her and Richie, as if she were trying to make sense of the group dynamic.  _ Good fucking luck _ , Stan wished her. “If you don’t mind. We’re stuck up here.”

“You’d be an angel if you ordered me an iced-tea.” Mike said, and Stan would feel worse for the girl, but all she had to do was place the order. The staff would bring it up. She seemed down for it, kind and intrigued with a hooked nose and small hazel eyes. 

“Bill,” Mike told him flippantly, “pay the girl.”

“Why,” Bill asked grumpily as he dug another bill out of his wallet, “are you all hitting me up for money?  _ We work at the same place _ .” He looked indignantly down at Mike as realization dawned on him, “YOU MAKE M-MORE MONEY THAN M-ME!”

* * *

Eddie was sweating. First dates were not supposed to be sweaty. His first date was Not supposed to be sweaty! But he was late, as usual, and he really didn’t want to be and so he fast-walked towards the restaurant. He didn’t want Noah to see him pull up on his bike. He might as well write I’m a Virgin who Can’t Drive on his chest if he did that. Somehow fast-walking didn’t make him any less late but it did make him 80% sweatier which was bullshit.

“Hi!” Eddie said, seemingly to the entire restaurant as he entered. He wanted to smack a palm on his face with embarrassment as people turned to look at him. He scanned the room with worry. He didn’t know what he’d do if he wasn’t even there and he just greeted the entire restaurant. Break out a tap number?

“Hey!” He heard called from the corner with a chortled laugh. Noah stood, leaving his bag on the chair and crossing to Eddie. Eddie felt himself grow nervous as he approached. He didn’t know what they were gonna do when he got there. Hug?? Handshake, as Noah seemed so very fond of?? What was the Gay Protocol here? There were no pamplets on this at the GSA meetings Eddie begrudgingly went to in high school. 

Noah's eyes dropped to his collar, and Eddie prayed his shirt wasn’t stupid. It was soft pink with little green plants embroidered on it, and Noah smiled and hopefully that wasn’t at the stupidness of his shirt. “You look cute,” he told him sweetly. He placed a light hand on Eddie’s back and kissed his cheek. Eddie’s heart squirmed in his chest. “What can I get you to drink?” Noah asked, leading them to the counter. 

Noah was older than him, and Eddie thought it showed. Unlike hanging out with his friends, or literally anyone their age, Noah never inched towards his phone. In fact, he never even had it  _ out _ . He left it in his bag, like some kind of crazy person, or  _ adult _ .. He listened like someone who knew how to very distinctly. He leaned forward with interest, and he always nodded at the right times and asked the right questions and genuinely didn’t seem to care that Eddie had been talking about the Flash for ten minutes. 

Eddie realized he had been, that was, talking about the flash for ten minutes. He flushed, and took a sip of his tea latte. He shifted forwards in his seat, giving himself a moment to figure out how to reroute that entire conversation. 

“You uh,” he scratched behind his ear, “you mentioned you studied abroad in Italy?” He left his hand on the table. He wasn’t trying to be obvious, but…

Noah picked it up, running a thumb over the knuckles, as he answered.

* * *

“THAT FLAGRANT SEDUCTRESS” Richie muttered to their group with the uproar as if Noah had just bent Eddie over in the middle of the coffee shop.

Bev rolled her eyes as Bill looked exasperated, “THEY’RE HOLDING HANDS, RICH.” He said through a mouth of bacon sandwich. Stan looked so pleased about his second sandwich that he didn’t even flinch at the _talking with the mouth full_ thing. 

* * *

Noah had done some really cool shit. Like speaking basic Italian and trapezing around Tuscany on a mo-ped. Mo-peds didn’t seem cool until Noah described them. Somehow, though, he didn’t make Eddie nervous, except in a pleasant, warm, heart-thumping way. He didn't make him feel intimidated. He didn’t make him feel inadequate, even though he was younger and less experienced. That kind of made his heart flutter. Noah responded to Eddie’s own stories, mostly about his friends or something nerdy, with as much interest as Eddie responded to his. Noah nodded as Eddie told a simple story of the Faire last summer, smiling just a little bit, just enough, and Eddie was hit with his very first wave of  _ wow, I really want to kiss you _ and not in the abstract sense I mean  _ right here, right now. _

“Guys!” Someone else, ran through the door in a fashion not unsimilar to Eddie, somehow addressing the entire room. Eddie’s jaw nearly hit the floor when he saw that it was Ben. Ben Hanscom. As in, his Ben. “My Pastor has colon cancer so I’m scot-free, when does Eddie’s date start?!” Eddie’s head whipped around in his seat towards where Ben directed his voice. Five teenage idiots literally collapsed to the floor on the second level. It didn’t make them any less visible, they were just now on the floor.

Eddie’s head whipped to Ben. Ben had, apparently, just noticed Eddie’s presence in the room.

“...I’m talking about my cousin Eddie.” He covered poorly.

His friends nearly fell down the stairs, in fact, it seemed as if they had. Eddie stood up, dusting off remnants of muffin from his own shirt. He opened his mouth to respond, possibly by yelling, to this entire thing, but they fucking  _ booked it _ to the door. Bev grabbed Ben by the neck and shoved him out first. 

“Wait!” Some girl called from a spot at the coffee bar, hopping up out of her stool. She grabbed Bill’s arm just before he made it to the door. Eddie was so gobsmacked he couldn’t even manage a response. She shoved a rolled up piece of paper in his hand. “Call me.”

Eddie apparently had missed more than he thought. His mouth opened and closed, looking somewhat like a fish, he was sure, and he was almost more angry his friends made him make a dumb=ass facial expression when he already looked like an idiot in front of Noah.

He realized Richie was looking at him. They made eye contact, and Eddie remembered he was  _ livid _ .

Richie basically picked Bill up by the back of his shirt, “no time, Billy, do you want to die today?!” He sounded, genuinely, a little panicked. Good, he should be. His voice returned to him. It was more screechy and less pleasant than what he would have liked, if he got to choose a voice. He didn't, he just had one. 

“RICHARD TOZIE-” 

The door slammed before Eddie finished the name. 

“...so those are your friends?” Noah joked lightly from his seat, effectively breaking Eddie’s anger with the innocence and overall nonchalance of his question. Eddie laughed, but still was planning his tirade as soon as his date was over in the back of his mind.

“Those are my  _ idiots _ ,” he corrected as he sat back down. 

* * *

“Maybe,” Ben suggested as they sat in the attic, “he forgot about the whole thing after the date and went home?” He looked incredibly nervous, and it was obvious he felt incredibly bad. It had been an agonizing forty five minutes where no one had heard a peep out of their smallest friend. Ben looked younger than he had in years, bunched up in the bean bag chair, his hood from his sweatshirt pulled over his head.

“Maybe he got  _ taken  _ home,” Bev winked at the room at large, trying to lighten the mood. No one was apparently in the mood for it. Bill looked mildly alarmed, Stan and Mike shared wary looks, Richie looked ready to either kill or die, whichever hit him first. Over-protective asses, she thought with an eyeroll. Eddie was a big boy who could handle himself. 

“He’s gonna kill me,” Richie moaned, rolling over on his bed.

“He’ll kill all of us,” Mike added gently.

“No,” Stan shook his head, “he’ll just kill Richie.” 

Richie sat up, “I need to make coffee."

Bill sat up, pointing and nodding as if Richie had just suggested an applicable cure for cancer "And waffles. Holy shit, yes." He clapped his hands together, the two already formulating a calm down Eddie plan before they got yelled at.

"Coffee, waffles, does anyone have daffodils?” RIchie stood up too quickly, and banged his head into the ceiling. Bev winced as Richie swore, rubbing at his head. Bev wondered why he thought anyone would just have daffodils. She also kne they only flowers that regrew themselves and therefore the only flowers that grew outside of Eddie's house. He had a soft fondness for them. 

“How do you know he’ll come looking for you here?” Ben asked. 

“Where else would I be?” Richie replied testily. 

They stared around the room at the graveness of their mistake. Why, oh why, had all of them decided to put their eggs into the basket that happened to be in the exact war path of an incredibly destructive, angry little chicken?

“I’m going home,” Mike announced. He stood up quickly, “Bev, want a ride?” 

“HELL yes!” She stood up quickly, dusting off her knees from the attic floor.

“Don’t leave me here, Marsh-” Richie complained, as Ben and Stan also stood up, collecting their things with hasty looks towards the exit. “GUYS, PLEASE, DON’T-”

All six phones in the room panged with a text. They each pulled out their phones with dread. 

**Groupchat**

**Eddie 12:43 p.m.  
** **Hello  
** **I expect you’ve all gone back to Bill’s?**

“WHAT DO WE ANSWER?” Mike yelled, throwing his phone at Stan. He caught it but stared at it with alarm, spluttering a little under his breath.

“TELL HIM WE’RE AT YOURS, OR EVERYONE WENT HOME!” Ben shouted in response, shoving on his own shoe. 

“Tell him I had sewing today!” Bev thought of, snapping her fingers by her hair as she threw her bag over her shoulder.

“Tell him I already died so there’s no point in killing me,” Richie wiped a hand over his face.

**Eddie 12:46 p.m.  
** **I’m taking your silence as a yes  
** **Please stay put, everyone.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi y'all!!! omg~ 1. thank u if u left a comment on the last chapter y'all are the lights of my writing life i appreciate it so much but 2. also if u reached out on my tumble?? thank you!! i got a few random messages about this fic last night that i was just like !! i want to update it and so i wrote this and it's here now heloo!!
> 
> but genuinely: your feedback means so much to me, so if you've been leaving it, thank you so much. if you also want to hang out with me else where my tumble is tossertozier!


	9. Chapter 9

Eddie was standing on the Denbrough lawn. He cast a side glance for Georgie's bike, but only one of the parent’s cars were in the driveway. As well as Ben's, Mike's, and Stan's. He knew they'd all be there. He was just plucking up his courage, like blades of grass out of the ground, before going inside. He waved to Noah’s car, which had pulled down the street but stopped. He waved it off, laughing to himself as he did so. He did find it sweet Noah seemed concerned about him getting inside safely.

He took a gulping breath in the pressing summer heat, adjusted the collar of his shirt, and barreled into the house.

“ALRIGHT,” he slammed the door open. He was hit with a wave of A.C. Everyone scrambled out of the foyer, where they were crouched watching him through the window. “WHERE IS HE?”

“Eddie,” Bill came straight towards him, wearing a different plaid shirt and an apologetic expression “it was my fault. It was my idea and I’m sorr-” Bill seemed like he was coming to grab Eddie’s forearms. Eddie wiggled away from him.

“No it wasn't,” Eddie narrowed his eyes at him. “And you know it wasn't.” He cleared his throat. Mike was watching him carefully from his new spot at the kitchen island. It was this calculating stare, as if he were trying to piece Eddie together like a puzzle. “Where IS he?”

“I'm here, Eds,” Richie stood up. He had been crouching behind the kitchen island. He ran a hand through his hair, wincing when it caught on the curls. He fidgeted with the plate in front of him. Eddie just noticed there was a selection of breakfast foods spread out on the island.

Richie’s energy was different than Eddie was anticipating. He was expecting Richie to make a fucking joke out of it, like he did with everything. Especially Eddie’s feelings. Instead, he was nervous, obviously anxious. Almost upset.

“I'm sorry, Eddie.” Richie shoved his glasses up on his nose. “I didn't mean to interrupt your date. I just wanted it to go well, and make sure he was being good to you,” he looked to Stan and Bev, who were standing by the table. They nodded encouragingly, as if he were saying everything the way they had planned, “and it got out of hand. And I was wrong. And I'm sorry.”

“We’re ALL sorry,” Ben added from his spot by the wall near Bill. Eddie couldn't force himself to be angry with the anxious looking Ben, picking at the skin around his fingernails. Or, really, the almost melancholy looking Richie, whose eyes never left his cheek. Or any of his friends. Of all Eddie’s talents, being genuinely upset with his friends just wasn't one of them.

“Oh...well,” he squirmed uncomfortably, unsure how to proceed. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt. “Okay…” he caught Bill’s eye. Bill nodded. Eddie felt calmer, more at ease. He looked to Richie "I forgive you. Then." Quickly after, almost as an after thought, he announced: “don't do it again.” And he really meant it, no matter how many wide-eyed, sorry ass little stares he got from Richie, it wouldn't be tolerated a second time. 

He held up three fingers “scout’s honor.”

Stan snorted “that's the Girl Scout salute, Rich.”

“Well, I personally believe I would have made one hell of a Girl Scout, so… waffles?” He picked up the plate “anybody?” The group, after a terse moment, began the shuffle forward, catching up with time as it ticked onward. Eddie felt like his bones were relearning how moving works as he stepped towards the island, where the plates were arranged.

When he looked up from his robotic movements, he saw Stan’s eyes fixed on him. Stan had not yet moved. “You don't look okay,” Stan squinted, seeing through him, as he was one to do, “you look mad.” He said objectively, plainly, as if he were pointing out observations during a science experiment “are you mad?”

“Well,” Eddie shuffled awkwardly. He messed with his shirt, wishing he had one to change into before hanging out with his friends, “yea.”

“About the date?” Beverly asked, dropping any interest about the breakfast she had until Eddie’s feelings were settled. He felt a rush of appreciation for her.

“No, I'm over that.” Eddie replied. Now all six pairs of eyes were focused on his, but one in particular were scrunched up in confusion.

“Then… what?” Mike asked, looking from side to side, as if he missed something, namely an explanation for Eddie’s feelings, or maybe just Eddie himself. As if it were just written on the wall somewhere, or the joke had followed him in, a giant comedic elephant in the room. Perhaps it had a tiara.

Eddie shifted awkwardly under his friend’s concerned gaze“I came here with the intention of yelling and now…” he shrugged. “I kind of just want to yell about something”

“Oh,” Stan blinked. He shared a look with Bill, speaking their own little language. Richie cut off a piece of waffle that was too large, struggling to shove it into his mouth, but not relenting to cut it any smaller, at the same time.

“Loki is a better villain than the Joker,” he said through his mouth of waffle, cutting himself off another piece that was just as large, laughing as Eddie spluttered, because he knew Richie had just said it to piss him off.

“H-how,” Eddie was kicked into motion all at once, speed-walking over to the counter, “how could you EVEN, THAT’S NOT AN ARGUMENT PEOPLE MAKE, AND REALLY-”

* * *

Ben couldn't help it. He was watching Beverly. He was trying to take in the mood in the room via her own gentle looks. The energy in the room remained off, slightly disjointed, even as Stan, Mike, and Eddie tried their best to fill the air with noisy conversation. They ate as normal, but Ben couldn't help but notice something off. He finished his plate quicker than normal. Beverly kept her eyes, smudged with purple eyeliner in a way that somehow made them look even bigger, on Richie. Richie had been quiet, oddly pensive, all day. Or, at least, as long as Ben had been in his presence.

Eddie had already seemed to move past his outburst of anger, and was laughing in between bites of waffle. Beverly smiled in the way that pressed it into her cheek. It was not her full, genuine, grin. Ben tried not to worry himself, but found himself curious.

She knocked her shoulder into Richie’s, “wanna get a smoke?” She asked.

“Hmm?” Richie, seemingly, for the first time, dragged his eyes off Eddie. “What?” He blinked, “oh,” he realized he remembered her question. He rolled his fists into the counter, cracking the knuckles, “nah. I'm good.”

Beverly’s brow furrowed. Ben thought she hadn't really asked Richie to inhale cancer sticks with her, she had wanted to talk. He shut her down. Shut her out, almost, as he stepped away, further into the counter. He was doing a good job of pretending he was engaged in the conversation. Ben could tell his mind was really elsewhere. Beverly ran her thumb nail through her eyebrow, the way she did when she was stressed.

“I'm gonna grab a smoke, guys,” she said finally, addressing the room. She grabbed her bag on the counter, digging through for her pack. She procured a yellow pack of cigarettes. Eddie waved halfheartedly, still leaned into Mike, gesticulating wildly as he explained exactly what a stock-holder _was_.

“Do you want someone to come?” Bill began to ask, but Beverly shook her head, cutting him off.

“Nah,” she replied. Her shrug wasn't full. Her mouth tilted, but it was hardly a smile. There was a cloudy distance in her eyes. Beverly, Ben thought, had her emotions written across her corneas. “I'm good.”

“Okay.” Bill shrugged.

Bev left through the back door to the Denbrough back yard. It creaked as it shut. To Ben’s credit, he did wait a solid forty five seconds before following her out.

“Hey,” he greeted as he grabbed her shoulder softly. She jumped violently. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you-”

“No, no no: it’s okay, really.”

Every so often, he got blaring, car-horn blasting, sirens wailing, light flashing, reminders of Beverly’s past he knew so little about. But he knew enough. He shoved his hand back into his pocket, and walked around her chair. Enough so she could see his face, but far enough she could breathe easily. He hated the mere presence of a man could be enough to shallow her breaths.

“That…” he didn’t know how to directly ask about Richie, so she tipped toe around it, “was weird. The whole morning, I guess.”

“Yeah,” she nodded as she agreed, exhaling a long line of smoke. It was hotter out than Ben remembered it being. He pushed his sleeves, and ran a hand through his fringe. She had her knees pressed together, little band-aids covering the tops, and her ankles far apart.

“Noah is a really nice guy…” Ben fiddled with his thumb. “And he’s really...sweet, to Eddie, and all.” Ben felt oddly involved, oddly at fault. Technically, he had been the one to introduce the two. Ben hadn’t realized that it would become a _thing_ in his life, until it just was one.

Bev hummed as she dragged another slow breath of the cigarette in. “I think he’ll be good for Eddie. I actually do.” She said around the smoke. She seemed to eye Ben, as if she were leveling her trust level in the back of her mind. She caved, falling forwards into her legs. “I don’t know what’s up with Richie. Actually, I think I do know. I think we all do.”

“Except Richie,” Ben nodded, shoving his hands ever further into his pockets. “Yeah.” He could feel the sweat building on the back of his neck. He could practically smell his deodorant.

“Maybe Eddie,” Bev added. She considered her cigarette as it drew down further. “Has he mentioned it at all?”

“Not once.” Ben replied honestly. “I keep waiting for it, but it’s never come.” He had been waiting for it. The _Richie_ talk. Ben thought that the Richie talk was something Eddie had with people in their group he was closer to, maybe Bill, or someone. Ben was slowly realizing that _the Richie talk_ wasn’t something Eddie had had with any member of the group. Ben really hoped Eddie had at least had that conversation with himself.

“That’s how I’ve been with Richie…” She took one last drag of the cigarette before stamping it out against the edge of the chair. “I don’t know. It’ll...I don’t know.”

“It’ll be fine,” Ben insisted with a gentle smile. He hoped it told her that it didn’t have anything to do with her, or Richie’s trust for her. It had everything to do with Richie himself, while he wrestled with the entire thing. Eddie had mentioned off-hand a few times how hard the whole gay process was for him. Ben couldn’t imagine it would be any easier for Richie. “Really.”

Bev leaned forward in her seat, holding out her pinky “keep me updated if you hear anything?”

He linked his pinky with hers “absolutely.” As if he’d ever say no to her.

She smiled then, her first genuine smile of the morning. Ben’s heart lit into little sparks along the edges, flickering in his chest. He opened his hand where their pinkies were linked, offering her a hand up. She accepted, hoisting herself to her feet, and going straight for the back door.

When Bev opened the door, she held it open. Her hand pressed flat, chipped green nail-polish sparkling in the sun.

“Thanks,” Ben said, not really talking about the door.

Bev just smiled in response. _Really_ smiled.

“Teach me Hebrew, Stanny.” Richie was leaned over almost awkwardly onto the island, his chin in his hand. His glasses were close to slipping off his nose.

“Why?” Eddie asked suspiciously. He set his fork down, apparently done with the cinnamon sugar monstrosity he had practically inhaled. He made a face, clearly digging something out of his teeth with his tongue.

“I’m tryna’ make a J-Swipe account,” Richie told him, looking almost lecherous, “I don’t think ‘shalom’ is gonna cut it over there.” Bev laughed as she dragged her finger across the edge of Mike’s plate, through the peanut butter. She stuck the digit in her mouth, sucking it off. Richie winked at her.

“Okay,” Stan rolled his shoulders back. “Do you know how to say ‘no’ in Hebrew?”

“No.”

“Yes you do,” Stan grinned. Richie’s eyes crinkled up with amusement under his thick glasses. Ben rejoined the group, standing next to Bev by the island. “Do you know how to say ‘yes’?”

“‘Yes?’” Richie guessed, sticking his tongue out a little bit with his amusement.

“No,” Stan replied flatly. “Ken.” He pronounced.

“Ken, as in Barbie?” Bill asked, propping himself up on his folder arms on the island.

“No, ‘Ken’ as in ‘yes, in Hebrew.’”

Mike snorted. He was scrolling through some app on his phone, but still listening to the conversation. Bill looked like he was four seconds from falling asleep on his counter.

“Okay, now repeat after me: a-nee.”

“A-nee.”

“Rotzeh eh.”

“Ruhtzey?”

“Rot.”

“Rot.”

“Rotzeh eh.”

“Rotzeh eh.”

“A-nee rotzeh eh.”

“A-nee rotzeh eh.”

“Tsfah-deahr.”

“Ts- what?!”

“Tsfah-”

“Tsfah.”

“Tsfah-deahr. Like de-dare, but one syllable.”

“Tsfah-deahr.”

“A nee rotzeh eh tsfahdeahr.”

““A nee rotzeh eh tsfahdeahr.”

“Good.” Stan beamed. “Now you know literally all of the Hebrew I can remember when it’s not directly in front of me.”

“What did you teach him?” Mike asked, locking his phone and setting it down on the counter.

“Something sexual,” Richie leaned in towards Eddie, “we can only hope.” He winked at him, licking his lips.

“‘Fuck me now’?” Eddie guessed, wiggling towards Richie with an amused look on his face.

Richie stepped back, “whoa, there, Spaghetti-head. You’ve got a boyfriend for that now.” Ben felt his own face wince before he registered it himself. Bev’s nose wrinkled, and Ben saw her make a ‘what the fuck was that’ look towards Stan. Richie, who could handle flirting with basically any moving thing on the planet, now shying away from Eddie? _Eddie_ , of all people? The day kept getting stranger.

“I want a frog,” Stan swooped in to change the mood of the moment.

“A frog?” Bill croaked from his spot on the counter.

“Where are we supposed to get this frog?” Bev asked, nicking another finger-full of peanutbutter from Mike’s plate.

“We probably have some in the pond at the farm, if you really want one,” Mike offered helpfully.

“What?” Stan looked was an interesting mix of incredulous and horrified, “no. That’s what I taught Richie ‘I want a frog.’”

“Why ‘I want a frog?’” Bev asked. When she reached her finger out towards Mike’s plate again, he just shoved the entire thing in her direction. She smiled at him sheepishly.

“You know, all those times in Israel. Where you. You know. Need a frog.” Stan rambled off, before seeming to have a moment where he really didn’t know why he had chosen I want a frog. “I have no idea.”

“It’ll be of use to Richie, at the least.” Mike defended, leaning his arms on the island.

“Oh yeah?” Bev cut off a spare piece of pancake, shoving it into her mouth ungracefully. “How?” She had a smudge of peanut butter in the corner of her mouth. Ben shooed away the thought of kissing it off.

“Yeah,” Mike nodded, “J-Swipe and all.”

“What?” Eddie squinted, his nose wrinkling up in confusion.

“I mean,” Stan nodded in agreement with Mike. He clearly understood his train of thought, even if the rest of them were left at the station. “If the girls didn’t want a frog, why else would they have swiped right on Richie?”

Richie made to tackle Stan, who laughed loudly at his own joke. Bev laughed too, but a more quiet, huffing laugh. Ben handed her a napkin, because he had been watching the peanutbutter on her mouth for far too long. She looked up from her look with Eddie to thank him. He pressed his lips together, smiling down at her.

“Ay,” Mike warned, picking up his phone again, “no murder in the Denbrough kitchen.”

“Sorry, Dad-” Richie and Stan apologized in unison.

Bill was yawning into the countertop. “Alright guys,” Mike announced to the room, clapping a hand on Bill’s shoulder. “Big Bill needs a nap. Let's clear out.”

“My Ma will be asking about me soon anyway,” Eddie stretched high above his head. Ben watched Richie’s eyes glance at his hands in the air, as if he were considering grabbing them.

“It's fine,” Bill’s sentence broke off into a yawn. Stan laughed, swiping his own keys off the counter. He twirled them around his finger. “You ready?” He asked Richie.

“Yeah, is Bev-” he spied Bev, who gave him a quick thumbs up. “Alright then.”

“Where are ya’-” the yawn seemed to be contagious to Eddie, seated on a stool next to Bill. He yawned too, covering his mouth with his hand, “goin’?l

“Drag show,” Stan explained. Ben remembered the three of them talking about it in the attic earlier in between panicking about Eddie's future reaction. The performer was a friend of Bev's aunt Clara, and she had some extra tickets. They liked drag, the three of them. They watched this flamboyant reality show about it and would occasionally use these quotes that would take about six year to explain the context of to the rest of them, so they just let it slide. 

“Wanna go?” Bev asked. She walked over, and looped her arms over the sleepy Bill’s neck. He hummed contentedly, rubbing a hand over her forearm. She leaned her cheek on the crown of his head.

“Uh...I think my Ma wants me home.” Eddie also just didn't want to go - and it was written all over his face.

Richie snorted. He reached out to Eddie, grabbing a rebellious piece of hair that had flopped against his forehead. He tucked it back with his other hair. He ran his fingers through the short strands as he did so. “No one is surprised, Eggo-Eddo.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. He opened his mouth to reply, when a shrill call of “ _BIIIIIILLLLL-_ ” cut him off.

Bill groaned, seeming to melt even further into the countertop. Ben shared a wide-eyed stare with Mike. Stan rolled his eyes. Richie started preemptively laughing.

Georgie all but fell down the stairs, wearing the most fashionable sweatpants Ben had ever seen, “MOM SAID YOU WOULD TAKE ME TO THE MALL. ALL MY FRIENDS ARE GOING.” Georgie had an amazing ability to make anything seem like an argument, even if no one was arguing with him.

Be withdrew her arms, patting Bill’s shoulders consolingly. “Okay, buddy.” He yawned into his arms, thinking none of them could see him. “Give me ten minutes.”

“ _BILL_ ,” Georgie whined, all but stamping his foot. “THEY WON’T EVEN BE IN THE FOOD COURT BY TH-”

“I'll drop him off, Bill.” Mike stood, stretching as he did. He walked to the table, grabbing his jacket and his keys. Why Mike wore jackets in June, Ben had no idea. “You ready to go, kiddo?”

“You sure, Mike?” Bill asked, at the same moment Georgie was gaping in an impression of a fish Ben had saw at a farm once.

“It's on the way, no big deal.” Mike shrugged the jacket over his shoulders. “Ready?”

“ONE MINUTE,” Georgie dashed back up the stairs. He looked like a roadrunner.

Richie snorted a laugh out, “good luck with that one, Mikey.”

Ben patted his shoulder “you're too kind.” He crossed to the sink, where Richie was picking up plates and dumping them by the side of the sink. Eddie hopped off his stool, almost stumbling on his feet as he landed. Ben made himself busy quickly. He was hopeless in the kitchen, so he always volunteered to do dishes. Ben rolled up his sleeves and wet a sponge quickly. The blue one, Mrs. D always used blue for the dishes. He’d just scrape off the excess syrup before the dishwasher.

Eddie dropped his own plate and cup by the sink. Bill joined him on his other side.

“Hey, Eds?” He almost boxed in the poor guy, right in between himself and Ben. “Stay over tonight.” It was a question, but the way Bill said it, it sounded more like a statement.

“Okay.” Eddie nodded.

Ben had so much to ask him about on Monday.

* * *

  **Groupchat **

** Mike 3:54 pm **

**OH my god yall**

**My car now reaks of axe deodorant**

**he seriously must have used half a can before he left**

** Richie 3:58 pm **

**mikey didn't you know**

**axe is the smell of young love ...**

**its in the air**

** mike 4:02 pm **

**beep beep, richie.**

** bill 4:02 pm **

**ditto**

**im so sorry mike.**

**ill destroy the can of it in his room now.**

** mike 4:05 pm **

**id tell you not to but...**

**its really for the good of society**

** bev 4:12 **

**i agree**

* * *

It was getting late. Eddie yawned into his hand widely when Bill climbed the ladder back into the attic. He tossed a pair of his own sweatpants at Eddie who hadn’t asked for them. He knew he’d want them anyway, even if they swam on him. “Another episode?” He asked, climbing on to the bed next to him.

On the screen was the current season of Iron Fist, which neither of them were particularly enjoying but they were powering through in an effort to prepare themselves for The Defenders.

Eddie yawned again, covering his mouth with his hand. Bill smiled fondly at him. Eddie, from the time they were kids all the way to that day, could never admit that he was getting tired. “Or we could go to sleep,” Bill suggested. He curled up on his side, tucking his arm under his face as he looked at the man next to him.

“It’s okay, we can do one more.” Eddie insisted. He stood up, shucking off his pants quickly to trade for the sweats Bill brought him.

“You’ve had a long day,” Bill replied. He wrapped himself in his favorite blanket of the strange assortment Richie had collected. It was a soft plaid knit, just large enough for two people.

“So have you,” Eddie smiled down at him. He ran a hand through his hair, gently tousling what was once carefully situated on his head. “What time did he make you go to the Grille?” Eddie didn’t even have to say who. He sat back down, and laid back on the bed. He tucked his hands behind his head.

“10:30.” Bill told him, sound both tired and remorseful. Eddie laughed. The air between them was quiet for a moment. It wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable, but it definitely hummed between them that Bill wanted to talk about the entire thing. He wasn’t sure if Eddie really did. “You know he meant well by it, right?”

“Why do you think there was so little yelling?” Eddie replied. It seemed like he was inspecting the rafters above him, squinting at them as if they had answers. There was a hazy calm setting over them, frost on morning grass, a pleasant buzz in Bill’s skin even though they weren’t under the influence of anything. “I wanted to be angrier with him,” Eddie admitted softly. “But I-” Bill wondered if this was it, if they were finally gonna have the conversation he’d waited years to have with Richie and longer to have with Eddie. “I know he felt bad.” And that little hope that was sparked in Bill’s chest flickered out as it always seemed to do.

“He did,” Bill agreed, rolled over on to his side. He watched Eddie. The graceful slope of his nose and the spatters of freckles from spending so much time in the sun. “And he meant well...you know, just…” _Richie didn’t, and still doesn’t, know how to deal with you actually dating someone,_ Bill thought to himself, “Richie doesn’t do well with change.” Bill reminded him gently, instead. It was a much safer thing to say.

“Who said anything’s going to change?” Eddie defensively told the ceiling. The ceiling, Bill was sure, did not reply. He did, though.

“They’ve already changed, Eddie.” He exhaled, phrasing his sentence gently but with a solid, firm foundation. Eddie sighed. His defenses fell a little as he exhaled. He finally gave up, rolling over, and in towards Bill. The two, each bent up on their sides, looked at each other. The musty scent of the attic was tickling the edge of Bill’s nostrils, and the dark exposed how long they had been watching their t.v. show. Eddie smiled at him, slow and almost sad. His eyes were soft at the corners. Bill asked a question. Not the one he really wanted to ask, but one that was nagging at the back of his mind.

“Why didn’t you even mention him?” He prodded, sounding sad. He was sad. He had told Eddie about all of his dates. He didn’t know why Eddie’s were any different.

“We share everything.” Eddie replied, blinking. Bill didn’t know if he meant everything tangible, or not, or actually, it might have been both. Bill did know that he didn’t mean just we two, the two in the dusty attic. He meant the entire group. “I kind of liked having one thing that was just mine,” Eddie finished softly. He got the closest he could get to a shrug while laying on his side. He looked gentle, and tired, but something else too. He looked _pleased_ , really. He looked older, too. Bill got a sudden flashback, to a night not unlike their night tonight in form, t.v. shows and frozen pizza and sleepy conversations in the attic. Except, that night they were 14, and Eddie was sobbing about being gay and ruining their friendship and Bill didn’t know what to do but reassure him over and over again that he still liked him, heck, he _loved_ him, and nothing would change. It had lasted hours. The memory cracked through a block of ice in Bill’s chest, the hurt of it washing over any hurt that resided from Eddie not mentioning Noah. It was followed by a warm rush of pride for his friend. He had gone on his _first_ date. Iit had been with a boy he _liked_ .  And it had gone _well_.

Bill smiled crookedly, and could tell Eddie didn’t know why. He shuffled forward anyway, and whispered, almost conspiratorily “tell me about him?”

That warm pride feeling almost burned at his stomach as Eddie all but _giggled_ and fell into a ramble about the mysterious man with green eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi y'all!!  
> 1\. s/o to stan ... not realizing everyone isn't saying no they're saying lo  
> 2\. don't think too long about tiny scared eddie coming out to bill it Will hurt your heart  
> 3\. o m g... thank u for ur lovely comments if you leave them...u mean the world to me, u really do. idk y'all. im trying my best but i keep getting those feel-bad waves of everything i write just seeming bad to me no matter how much i try and work on it it just doesnt seem good. idk. low confidence days are hard y'all. your comments really help me feel better about what i'm doing and they're a big motivator for me, and some on the last chapter really helped me to pick this back up. thanks, so much, y'all. big love.
> 
> as always, im hanging out on my tumblr a lot, tossertozier. ask me questions or just hang out and we'll have fun.


	10. Chapter 10

“Good morning, Ms. Marsh,” Mike greeted her from his spot in the back of his truck. He had opened the hatch and was sitting in the bed.

“Mr. Hanlon,” she nodded, yawning into her sweater sleeve. It managed to be cool in the mornings in Derry, even in the summer. Although, her and her aunt’s apartment hardly qualified as Derry anymore. It was quite the ways out from the city center, where Ben lived, and the suburbs where Bill, Eddie, Stan and Richie lived. It was closest to the farm, but still a ten minute drive out of Mike’s way to pick her. She thanked him profusely until she was even irritating herself, and accepted it as the norm. She climbed into the truck bed next to him. “You’re early.” She produced a small black vape out of her pocket so she wouldn’t bother him with the scent of cigarettes. He smiled and shrugged. It was a thin smile, a concealing one. She tucked her knees up to her chest, turning so she could shuffle and actually sit in the truck bed. She leaned up against the side. “What’s on your mind?”

“College stuff,” he sighed. “I don’t know, Bev. There’s a lot of life outside of Derry,”

“A fact I am personally thankful for every day,” she joked back, blowing vapor out to the side. He sniffed the air.

“Green apple?” He guessed, also sitting back and leaning against the truck bed, so they were facing each other.

“Pear.” She replied, sucking in once again. He held his hand out expectantly. He caught it easily.

“Are you excited about New York?” He asked her, sucking in on the vape pen. His hands were large and dwarfed the pen entirely. He was wearing a soft looking grey hoodie over a plain red shirt, very typical Mike garb.

“I’m trying not to put too much expectation on it,” she shrugged. She licked her lips and sat forward, flicking at the little strand of hair that went rogue and fell in her eye. “I feel like if you build anything up too much in your head, it won’t come out like you think it will.”

He exhaled a second round of vapor, smiling as he did so. Bev thought she had been smoking so long she could actually pin-point when the nicotine hit, when the fuzz settled and your shoulders lightened and things got a little easier.

“Yeah,” he slid the pen back to her across the truck bed. “Alright,” he sighed, shifting forward out of the truck, “come on, Princess, we’ve got a throne to get you to.”

“Ugh,” she rolled her eyes but followed. She winced a little when she hopped down, her ankles cracking as they hit the pavement. “Don’t call me that.”

“What?” Mike grinned, shutting the hatch of the truck and heading for the driver’s seat. “Over the royal life?”

“More like,” Beverly still had to make a small jump into the passenger seat of the beaten up truck. She shut the heavy door behind her, and kicked her feet up on to Mike’s dashboard. “Never liked it in the first place.”

“Really?” Mike pulled away from the curb. He turned the radio down, it was on the R&B channel already. “I know a few girls who would kill for that job.”  
“But you know me, Mike,” Bev rolled down her window, blowing the vapor out of it gently.

“I’ve always been,” she struck a dramatic, joking, pose “‘Not Like The Other Girls.’” She was kidding, of course. Mike laughed loudly, shaking his head as he pulled on to the freeway. “Nah,” She sucked on her pen again. “I don’t know. It’s boring. I don’t have very many lines, the ones I do have are flat. My job is mostly to sit there and get fought over by men. Then I take pictures.” She rolled her eyes. “Fascinating.”

“What would you do instead?” Mike asked her, looking serious. He turned down the radio further. Beverly hadn’t been paying attention to the song before, but now it was barely perceptible.

“Hmm?”

“I mean, name another job at the Faire. What would you do?” He asked. He drummed his fingers on the wheel to the beat, paying close attention to the road. But his tone told her that he was actually intrigued.

“I dunno,” She shrugged. “Probably work with Mari on costume upkeep, I guess. Maybe one of the dress sellers.”

Mike raised an eyebrow at her, “do you want to trade?” He asked seriously.

Beverly sat up, dropping her feet from the dashboard. She hadn’t considered it a serious possibility before. But she was sitting there, in a car, with a man whose job was just delegation and assignments. 

“Maybe?” She told him after a moment. She fiddled with her pen nervously. “Can I think on it?”

“Of course you can.” He grinned, pulling his eyes away from the road for just a second.

* * *

“You can do this, Eddie.” Bill assured him as they walked in. Eddie felt ready to bolt at any given moment. Bill clapped him on the shoulder. “I did it for years.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie blinked, “when did I magically transform into Bill Denbrough? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” He grumbled, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. It was a brand new, dark maroon with black knickers to pair. "I would have bought myself some ugly shirts and a car that doesn't drive to sit in my garage for two years."

“We don’t need anymore Bill Denbroughs,” Stan smirked in Bill’s direction. “Or cars that don't drive.”

Bill snorted. He dropped his hands into his pockets, and nodded at someone headed their way. Eddie grabbed his phone from his back pocket. Stan glanced curiously at it. Bill’s eyes flicked in the direction of it, but ultimately looked up. “Hey Ben,” he greeted easily, “morning.”

Eddie knew Stan’s eyes were still on his phone, the nosy fuck, but he opened the text anyway.

**Noah 9:02 a.m.**   
**hey!**   
**good morning**

Eddie smiled at the simple text, and typed out a quick greeting in response. He asked Noah how his trip into the city had gone, as he had to commute out for a few meetings that day.

“What are you guys doing out here?” Ben asked, really asking Stan. Stan normally retreated into the offices as quickly as his legs would carry him.

“We’re waiting for Mike,” Bill explained. “So he can take our boy here,” he slung an arm over Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie didn’t particularly notice or care, because the little typing bubbles were appearing by Noah’s name. “To his new job!”

**Noah 9:04 a.m.**   
**Traffic wasn’t too bad!**   
**I was thinking of you.**

Eddie bit his lip to suppress the grin.

“Oh?” Ben asked, curiosity clearly piqued. “Which is?”

“Bill’s old job,” Stan replied smoothly. The amusement wasn’t well hidden within his voice. Eddie seemed about as well matched to glass-blowing as bears are to kiddy pools filled with mayonnaise. Eddie didn’t care. He’d take anything over going back to food.

**Noah 9:05 a.m.**   
**I had the oldie channel playing on the radio and a cinnamon bagel.**   
**It all seemed very you.**

Eddie gnawed on his lip and debated about exactly how flirtatious his response should be. Noah had seemingly given him an in and he couldn’t exactly think of another response.

**Eddie 9:06 a.m.**   
**I wish I were there.**

**Noah 9:06 a.m.**   
**So do I.**

For a moment, Eddie just let out a pleased little noise. He wasn’t sure how actually respond to the text. Luckily, Noah didn’t make him.

**Noah 9:06 a.m.**   
**There is a man with an ostrich in the hotel lobby.**   
**How bizarre.**

Eddie thought about how Richie probably would have tried to ride it.

**Eddie 9:06 a.m.**   
**I would agree**   
**But I’m standing in a place where they’ve strapped a horn to a horse’s head and are trying to tell people it’s a unicorn, so what do I know?**

**Noah 9:07 a.m.**   
**You mean to tell me…**   
**That WASN’T a unicorn?**

Eddie laughed softly, feeling his eyes crinkle as he typed his response.

**Eddie 9:07 a.m.**   
**Time to shut the whole thing down.**

**Noah 9:07 a.m.**   
**We’ll have to get rid of the whole Faire.**   
**How is it there this morning?**

**Eddie 9:07 a.m.**   
**I’ve got a new job.**   
**I am to put glass in fire.**   
**Two incredibly dangerous things and someone had the bright idea of ‘hey, let’s not just throw them together, and see how that goes!’**

**Noah 9:08 a.m.**   
**hahah**   
**How hot.**   
**Literally.**

**Eddie 9:08 a.m.**   
**that was cheesey**

**Noah 9:08 a.m.**   
**I was rather hoping you’d like that about me.**

**Eddie 9:08 a.m.**   
**did i say i didn’t?**

**“Eddie. EDDIE.”**

“Hmm?”

“Ben’s been trying to ask you a question for three minutes.” Bill coaxed with a cocky smile on his face. Stan rolled his eyes and simply took the phone out of Eddie’s hand.

“Hey!” He balked, and huffed when Stan held the phone above his head, out of Eddie’s reach. “I will climb you, Stanley.” He warned furiously, sparing a look around at the other people clocking in for the day. He would do it, too. But he didn’t want to get Stan’s pants dirty without so much as a warning.

Stan raised an eyebrow at him, “I’m certainly not the one you’re trying to climb.” He joked. He laughed when Eddie blushed. Ben, taller than Stan, gave him a flat look and easily reached up and took the phone back. He glanced at the screen, smiled at the name, and handed it back to Eddie. “Where’s Mike, though?”

“I d-don’t know,” Bill looked around, his face just barely twinging up concern. “I’m a little bit worried about him. I think he’s pretty stressed.”

Eddie wanted to look down at his phone and text Noah, but his face tilted up at that idea. He furrowed his eyebrows. “Do you think there’s anything we could do to help?” He asked Bill.

Bill scratched under his jaw. He did a rough job shaving that morning. He and Eddie woke up pretty late. He didn’t need to shave as often as Richie or Mike, but he still had scruff poking through the surface. “I don’t know. I think maybe I should just take you down to meet Rick and get you set up.”

Eddie swallowed but nodded, trusting Bill’s lead. The entire thing had happened rather suddenly. Because Noah was done all the work he had to do around the Faire for a while, Eddie was supposed to go back to the booths that day. Mike was texting Bill about replacing the worker in Bill’s old position the night prior, and the entire thing was Bill’s idea. Bill was confident in Eddie’s ability to deal with the hot fire sticks, Mike was less-so, and Eddie was barely confident that he’d be able to toast a marshmallow.

Bill noticed Eddie’s hesitancy. “Rick’s a good guy,” he assured him. “The job isn’t very hard. A lot of it is sales!” Eddie was not convinced, but nodded once again anyway. Bill looped an affectionate arm over his shoulder again, rubbing at his arm. “Call Mike and tell him we’re headed over there?” He asked Stan. Stan nodded. The four of them split ways, Stan and Ben on the paths towards the offices, Eddie and Bill in the other. “And the great thing about Rick is,” he said lowly into Eddie’s ear, waving at some women who called his name as they passed, “he won’t get too mad when you spend half your shift grinning at your phone.”

“Oh,” Eddie shoved him, “fuck off.”

* * *

Stan sighed when he looked at her. He hadn’t meant to be cruel. His life was just already a Lot, and the time spent counting used to be some of the truly peaceful hours of his day. It was mind-numbing and it passed quickly. He’d put in headphones and count and then when the playlist finished, he’d be more than half-way done his shift.

Now, it dragged. It dragged even worse after she had gotten the vibe he was not a particularly chatty individual. She used to bop quietly in her seat along with her own music. Her shoddy headphones leaked sound terribly. They had little pandas on the ear bud. She had given up on that, evidently. She sat there with her face in her palm, looking downright melancholy as she counted her half.

Even her outfits got less colorful. He almost did a double take, because it hardly seemed like the same girl that fell into the office two weeks ago. She was wearing a light pink sweatshirt that depicted that grandmother from Courage the Cowardly Dog that eclipsed most of her body. It hung down well into her gray legging-covered thighs, which were shapely and attractive, not to say Stan was paying egorious amounts to her legs. She had her hair up in a frankly bizarre up-do, two buns of her head. She had excess baby hairs flying into her face, which she blew at absent-mindedly every so often.

She sat oddly in her chair, cross-legged even though it was a normal chair, and she looked down-right blue as she counted the cash. Everything Stan loved about counting, she probably hated. But he couldn’t love those things anymore when someone was looking so outrightly miserable in his presence. Things just couldn’t be the way they used to be anymore. He’d have to find a new normal that included her, somehow.

“Hey,” he greeted gently, pulling out his headphones. With a crinkled look on her face, she blinked up at him. “I bet you,” he grabbed two bags of quarters from the floor, “I can count mine,” he put what felt like the slightly heavier bag in front of him on the desk, “before you can count yours.”

A smile grew on her face, stretching her hooked nose a little wider so it tugged down. Stan found it charming, almost.

“I can sweeten it.” She sat up with a hop. “Move that.” She pointed to the cash Stan had already counted. He did so, but with caution. She grabbed two binder clips from the drawer, and unceremoniously dumped a bag of quarters on the desks in front of them, that were pushed together to meet in the middle. She took the empty back and clipped it to the end of the desk, so it hung off. “I bet I can make more goals than you.” She grinned, slinging a quarter along the counter and into the bag. “Blum: 1. Curly: 0.” She enthused with a big smile.

Stan could accept the challenge even if the quarters dumped all over the counter made his eye twitch a little bit. He pulled his chair up and sat down, smoothing his hands out over his pants. He frowned absently at a wrinkle that was pressed into his pant leg but he didn't let it bother him. Patty tugged her chair up close. She sat on it and pulled the handle. It sunk almost comically low to the ground, so just her chin appeared above the line of the desk. She had a victorious little smirk on before the game even started. Stan found himself smiling in spite of himself.

“Okay, if you win: we write a counting song.”

“And if you win?”

“You never call me ‘Curly’ again.”

She hummed, clicking her tongue as punctuation. “Kay, Squiggles.” She told him delightedly.

Stan felt his heart lift at the corners, as if it were being pinched and tugged into his esophagus by chipped nail-polished fingers.

Four rounds, one word association game, and very poorly written song later, they had only done a quarter of their work in half the time they were allotted. The time had flown by. Stan thought he could have almost reached out and touched it as it shimmered by, glistening, golden swirled moments. They radiated warmth and were angel-soft to the touch.

“Oh god, Stan.” Patty realized the time with a small gasp. “What are we gonna do?” She stood up, wringing her hands nervously. Patty, so far as Stan could tell, was a real emotional rollercoaster. He ordinarily would have found it frankly annoying, like the way Eds, god knew Stan loved him anyway, would on occasion have him longing for ear buds. Instead, he felt the smallest swinging of her anxiety in his chest with her. He felt as if it were innately in his chest, understanding how she felt and wanting it to be better. And logically, he wasn't at all actually anxious. Had she not been worried, he wouldn't have felt that pull on his stomach at all. But something about her made him feel… empathetic? In a way he hadn't felt before.

“Here,” he told her gently, clearing away the dollars from their last round into neat stacks. “It'll be fine,” he soothed from his seat. “We’ll work through lunch and clock out early. You take the rest of the coins and the big bills. I'll take 1-20’s.” It was a perfectly logical solution. He should know: it was what he told her they should do on her first day. Not that he'd bring that up now.

She nodded and sat down, picking up her own pile from the floor, but hardly looked calmed.

He stared at her, unsure of what the next move was. He was a person that was relaxed by a logical solution to a solvable problem. He didn't particularly know what to do with people who weren't. He thought of what Bill might do. He reached out and ran two fingertips across the back of her hand. “Hey,” he told her gently. “It's gonna be alright. We've been further behind before.” That was a lie, of course. He and Sam never got the opportunity to get behind.

Patty, evidently, was not someone who thrived under stress. Her hands shook as she counted quickly, and every so often she’d softly swear and obviously start over. He blinked, and wondered why it felt like her discomfort was pressing in on his chest, so he felt it, too.

“So,” Stan commented lightly while organizing the piles of bills. He started to count quickly. It was actually very difficult to talk and keep track at the same time, but he managed. “My friend Eddie told me this story the other day. He has this cousin and she's super smart, going to school for bio chem,” _23 24 25 26 27 28 dont fuck this up Stan_ , he thought, “but somehow, thought that trees were the reason the wind blew until 10th grade. She was standing in a parking lot and she was like ‘wow it's so windy but there aren't any trees?’ And everyone was like ‘...what the fuck are you talking about.’ And that's how she found out that trees don't have anything to do with the wind.” Patty was laughing to herself as she scooted coins over easily, clearly listening, but lips silently mouthing the numbers as she did so. Stan would have one hell of a headache later, but thought the quirk in her pink mouth was somehow worth it.

* * *

"Afternoon, Captain.” Richie did an over dramatic salute to Rick. Rick was a decent guy, and Richie liked him well enough. He never got huffy about him hanging around Bill in between shows, but he was a little stingy about sharing his grass. Richie supposed if he were Rick he would be stingy about sharing weed with random broke teenagers too.

Rick didn't say much, but continued pulling out a spool of what looked like ribbon that Eddie was holding. He had watched Bill and Rick do it a million times, but watching Eddie do it made Richie’s heart swell for some reason. Probably because what Bill could do standing up, Eddie had to sit on the counter to do. Eddie was missing his enormous green hat with the feather he used to have, but was sporting a smaller black one. Somehow it managed to make his eyes even bigger.

“First mate,” he winked at Eddie.

Eddie faked a gasp, “a pirate!” He said with mock surprise, looking pretend aghast at Richie’s presence. “In these waters?” He looked back and forth, as if he were actually on a naval ship.

“Come to pillage yer coins,” his pirate accent was decidedly weird but he continued with it anyway. He planted his hands on the counter and leaned across, as close to Eddie as he could get himself, “and continue my sexual plunder.”

“I’m sure it's an impressive one,” Eddie smirked when he raised his eyebrows. Richie didn't know what it was, but it made the little hairs on the back of his neck prick into his skin. He coughed a bit settling back on his feet instead of leaning on his toes.

“Hide yer maidens,” he joked anyway, even if he had inadvertently made the energy a little bit awkward.

Rick snorted. Richie’s head whipped in his direction, ready to comment on what the fuck that was supposed to be, but he started talking before Richie could open his mouth.

“Alright, Eddie. That should be good for the 2:50 and 3:30 show.” Rick crossed to Eddie, and took the spool from his hands. “Feel free to take fifteen,” he waved an apathetic hand in Richie’s direction. “Or whatever.”

Richie could practically feel his own eyes light up. He dug his marker for assassin out of his shirtsleeve, and grinned a wicked grin at Eddie. “Wanna help me make a hit?” Half-pirate, half-Richie.

Eddie, instead of hopping down and walking out of the booth via the swinging door, simply scooted across the counter. He swung his legs down by Richie’s, and jumped down on the other side. “After you, marauder.” He held his arm out, content to follow Richie where the wind may lead them.

Eddie could be an overtly clever, mischievous little imp when he wanted to be. Richie’s newest target was a worker at the a traveling pushcart, who was proving difficult to nab. Richie had planned on ambushing him that day, because he was leaving early that day for family plans, or so Richie had heard through the grapevine. Eddie and Richie were hidden in the flags just outside of the gate, making it just outside of the no-go zone. They hung against the wall, but Eddie pointed out if they made themselves flat enough, there would be just enough room for them to stay concealed. One of Rochie’s sources, he aligned himself early on in the game with a group of elderly women that worked in the tea shop who were determined to win, texted him a jumble of letters and an exclamation point. Richie took that as he was on his way.

“So,” Richie began, working hard to keep his back pressed against the wall of the castle so the flags wouldn't flutter, “who's your next target?”

“Whoever my first one was,” Eddie relied with a shrug. If the rules didn't state Richie had to mark him himself, he would have Eddie do it. He was so small he could probably be right by the entrance and just reach out and grab do it effortlessly.

“Eddie,” Richie gasped, his fake-horror only half faked, “you fiend. That is shameful.”

“Oh no," Eddie replied sarcastically with a roll of his eyes, "gonna make me walk the plank?” Eddie asked. His face was rather flat, but he couldn't particularly hide the small twinkle of amusement in his eye when he turned his face to look at Richie.

“Worse.” Richie replied. “You're on crow’s nest.” He replied with the seriousness as if they were actually about to board a pirate ship. Eddie wrinkled his nose the way he did when he thought something was funny but couldn't laugh about it. The flag in front of him was red, creating this faint pink glow on his face.

“I feel like I'd already be on crow’s nest.” He replied easily, hushing his voice.

“Quite possibly,” Richie agreed. “Navigation, and such." Eddie hadn't got lost once since Richie had known him, even when he and Bill used to drag out to the barrens and pretended playing in mud was fun. He had a natural sense of direction and very rarely bothered to use a GPS. "I don't know how someone that's so good at directions can manage to be late to something every day of his life.”

Eddie gave him a flat look. Richie took it as encouragement.

“But you'd hate it up there." Richie commented idly. He could imagine Eddie in the little pirate hat, pouting in the wooden cylinder. The image made him smirk. "All by yourself, nothing but you and … sea pigeons.”

“Sea pigeons?”

“You know, the” Richie couldn't remember the name of the bird. He thought he'd just imitate it instead. Richie made a noise that vaguely sounded like a bird and vaguely sounded like a blender that was attempted to blend a pumpkin whole. Eddie choked out a laugh at the sound, buckling forward a little bit, rustling the flag. It caught the wind, and flew up.

On the other side, the spotty teenager Richie was after was staring at him, clearly confused as to why the two were talking about sea birds behind flags. The teenager they completely forgot about.

“Oh shit!” Eddie swore. He hopped up in his place, pushing his foot against the wall, and ran towards the boy. The guy, Greg was his name, caught on quickly, and began to run in the other direction. Eddie made a strangled noise, and straight-up tackled him. When Richie marked his arm with the marker, he was almost crying from laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n  
> We're playing a dangerous game called I had to update this from my phone so god knows what the format looks like. Hopefully it's okay! Delivering that stan/patty content no one asked for !!  
> Kajsdj honestly if you left comments in the past just Know I consider you to be an actual angel in this world... they literally make my day. I was so very :))) reading them last time. thank y'all so much. I find them so encouraging & im trying to keep my update steam goin.
> 
> As always I'm hanging out on my tumblr tossertozier if u wanna hang out there too!! :)


	11. Chapter 11

It was a quiet Thursday in the Denbrough attic.

“So, today…” Bill began to ramble, laying back on the pull-out bed. Richie sighed from his spot sitting on it, but hummed in interest anyway. “There was this guest,” and Bill had this far-away dreamy tone of voice that indicated this would be a story about Bev. It was always the same tone of voice when it was about Bev. “He was so nervous to meet Beverly,” Richie clicked through the opening screens of Halo hastily, so that he could shorten this story before it turned into War and Peace. He loved Bill. He loved Bev. Listening to Bill ramble about Bev was arguably one of the most boring activities that existed. “I think he was on the spectrum, or something. He was, l-like, shaking.”

“Uh-huh,” Richie prompted, feeling like a bored husband. Their marriage must be in shambles if he was listening to his husband prattle on about the other woman.

“And so Beverly politely asks the crowd to step aside and she goes to him, and kneels down so they can talk and he’s less intimidated. He was so happy. It was so beautiful.”

“Mh-hmm.”

“Most people wouldn’t even notice that guy. She’s so...thoughtful. And considerate. You know, it’s like, I don’t even remember what movie this is from, it’s probably some cheese-y r-rom-com,” dear God, even without the stutter, Bill could go on and on sometimes, “but it’s really true, about Bev, that quote about ‘you have more kindness in your little finger than most people possess in their whole bodies.’”

Richie groaned and dropped his controller. Bill was sucking the fun out of video games. Richie didn’t even know that was possible, but he should have learned by then not to doubt Bill Denbrough. He turned and gave Bill a hard, flat look. “That’s from Cinderella, and I know that, because you made me watch it. Twice. Did you watch it again?”

“...no,” Bill lied.

“Is Mike still coming over?” Richie asked with a stretch and a yawn, kicking back on the bed. His lap ended up very near to Bill’s face. He highly doubt Bill minded. “Because I might kill you if he doesn’t, if we’re being honest.”

“I thought Eddie was coming over, too?”

Richie picked up the controller quickly. He tossed his phone in the direction of Bill. He had no secrets on his phone that Bill would be surprised about. Bill had already seen his nudes, Bill swears by accident. There was nothing left. “He was, but uh.” _Boy Wonder is in town tonight_ , Richie thought to himself. He was also in town on Tuesday night, and Eddie disappeared then, too. Richie sincerely hoped Eddie didn’t constantly make a habit of ditching his friends for his boyfriend. Honeymoon phase or not, that shit was rude.

Bill read through their texts quickly. “I see.”

“Yup,” Richie popped the ‘p.’

“...you okay?” Bill asked after a second.

“Yeah, I just…” he could barely get his set-up started. He paused the game, pushing his elbows up on the pillows behind him, reconfiguring himself so he was more comfortable. “We leave for college in, like, 72 days, you know?”

“Richie,” Bill almost laughed, shifting to prop his head up by his legs. He pressed his elbow into the mattress, and his face into his palm, “it’s _June_.” Richie ignored Bill’s patronizing tone of voice and un-paused the game.

“It’s still 72 days,” Richie reiterated, not looking down from the game. “I just want to, like, hang out with everyone as much as possible. That’s all.”

“Speaking of Eddie,” Bill commented quietly.

“Well, we weren’t just talking about Eddie-” Richie countered.

Bill ignored him, and continued his statement, “he just texted back. Do you want me to open it?” Richie paused the game again, rolling his shoulders back, and dropping the controller. He held his hand out for his phone. Bill dutifully placed it back. “I’m gonna head downstairs because if Mike’s coming in I don’t want him to get intercepted by Georgie and get stuck.”

“Kay,” Richie unlocked his phone casually. “I’ll be down in a second.” Eddie had mentioned Noah was taking him out that night. Richie had responded with a simple oh? Eddie just texted back.

 **eddie 6:03 p.m.  
** **i think we’re going out to eat but idk  
** **he didn’t say really.  
****i know we’re doing the film festival thing together but that’s tomorrow.**  

 **richie 6:03 p.m.  
** **wait, you made plans for tomorrow?**

 **eddie 6:03 p.m.  
****was i not supposed to?**  

 **richie 6:04 p.m.  
** **i mean  
** **not really  
****we just normally hang out on fridays**  

 **richie 6:07 p.m.  
****all of us, i mean.**  

 **eddie 6:07 p.m.  
** **sorry!  
** **he finally told me where we’re fucking going haha  
****oh, yeah, well. i know.**  

 **richie 6:07 p.m.  
** **oh where?  
****i mean it’s no big deal.**  

 **eddie 6:08 p.m.  
** **the asian place on 3rd.**

 **richie 6:08 p.m.  
****cool i’ll make my reservation**  

 **eddie 6:08 p.m.  
****beep beep, richie.**  

 **richie 6:08 p.m.  
** **too soon.  
****i get it.**  

 **eddie 6:11 p.m.  
** **do you…  
****care that i made plans tomorrow?**  

 **richie 6:11 p.m.  
** **nah it’s not that big of a deal  
** **function is at mine tomorrow, though.  
****like. if anything changes.**  

 **eddie 6:11 p.m.  
****really?**  

 **richie 6:11 p.m.  
** **yeaaaa went and mags are fucking off to one of went’s conferences  
****where all the dentist goblins meet and trade teeth**  

 **eddie 6:12 p.m.  
****i highly doubt that that’s what they do at dental conferences**  

 **richie 6:12 p.m.  
****you been to one?**  

 **eddie 6:12 p.m.  
****no.**  

 **richie 6:12 p.m.  
** **exactly.  
** **yeah. so, we’re probably gonna get drunk at mine. i mean, obviously you’ve got stuff now but  
** **yeah so you know  
****if anything changes**  

 **eddie 6:13 p.m.  
****richie, if it’s bothering you i’ll come.**  

 **richie 6:13 p.m.  
****lmao why would it be bothering me?**  

 **eddie 6:13 p.m.  
** **idk.  
****you seem bothered**  

 **richie 6:14 p.m.  
** **only hot n bothered  
****we could talk about this right now, if you want.**  

 **eddie 6:14 p.m.  
** **richie.  
** **what?**

 **richie 6:15 p.m.  
****seeing as i’m in your mother’s room and all.**  

 **eddie 6:18 p.m.  
****fuck you, trashmouth.**  

Richie looked up from his phone and realized a person was sitting next to him and jumped approximately six feet into the next dimension. “JESUS FUCK.” His heart rate skyrocketed and then plummeted out of the sky when he realized it was Mike Hanlon. Bill had dragged up the beanbag chair and was sitting in that by the bed. “CHRIST, warn a guy, would you?”

“Rich,” Mike fixed him with a steely look, “we’ve been sitting here having a conversation at full volume for ten minutes.”

“Impossible.” Richie argued.

“Literally correct,” Bill sided with Mike.

“Who were you talking to?” Mike asked, crossing one ankle over the other and his hands on his stomach.

“Guess,” Bill snorted. Richie felt irritation bubble over in his chest. Bill knew very well who Richie was talking to, and Richie was getting sick of the snappy little comments.

“Do you have something to say, Mushmouth?” Richie hadn’t whipped that one out in a while, but it seemed all-too appropriate. “Because, really,” he sat up, crossing his legs with rapt anticipation and turning to Bill “the audience is dying to hear it.” He cracked on the Vaguely Nineties Talkshow Host voice for the hell of it at the end there. 

“Calm down, Trashmouth.” Richie was really hoping he’d at least go for Bucky Beaver and be a man about it. “It was a fucking joke.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve just been choc full of jokes today, and I’m personally still waiting for the goddamned punch line.” Richie snapped.

“Oh _god_ ,” Bill rolled his eyes over-dramatically and Richie felt his blood boil further. “You know what the-”

“Guys.” Mike interrupted with a single hand, raised evenly between the two. “I love you both, but this is doing jackshit for my headache, and this fight is stupid. I mean, all y’all fights are stupid. But this one is _really_ stupid.”

Richie looked from Bill to Mike’s face, ready to fire out another retort. He stopped. Mike looked tired, more tired than he had all summer. He had his eyes shut evenly, his head leaned back against the pillows, and still managed to look exhausted.

“Do you want some Tylenol?” Bill asked, pushing up from the floor in a manner that suggested he was going to get Mike medicine whether he wanted it or not.

Mike nodded, returning his hand to his stomach. Richie was glad one of the two of them was leaving the attic. He loved Bill, but sometimes he just wanted to wring his neck. When he acted like he was smarter than Richie was one of them.

Richie sidled up next to Mike, turning to lay on his side to look at him. “What’s going on, shepherd boy?”

Mike sighed deeply. “I don’t know, man. I’m sorry.”  
  
“Nah,” Richie chided softly. “Don’t be. It was stupid.” Not that he would admit that to Bill. If it were Bill he were talking to, he’d argue that the fight was incredibly fucking valid and probably try and wrestle him.

“You ever,” Mike opened his eyes, scanned the ceiling. “Nevermind. It sounds dumb even in my mind.”

“Then it will probably sound dumb out loud,” Richie shrugged honestly. No point in hiding the truth. Mike cracked a smile. Richie smiled at it.

“I don’t know. You ever get really stressed and you don’t really know why but you just know you’re stressed?” Mike asked. “I just. I’ve been on edge for the last, like, week and a half and it’s really getting on my nerves now. I don’t even know what I’m nervous about.”

Richie couldn’t necessarily relate to the exact feeling. He was more irritated way more often than normal and couldn’t quite place it. Like his temper’s fuse was slowly getting snipped shorter and shorter and he didn’t exactly know why. He nodded anyway, because he really didn’t think that was important right now. It was probably more important Mike felt heard. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

 **eddie 6:22 p.m.  
** **the festival ends at eleven.  
** **i’ll come by after.  
** **okay?**

 **richie 6:23 p.m.  
** **whatever tickles ur pickle, edderoo.**

* * *

 

“I don’t see any reason why not.”  
  
“I see many, _multiple_ reasons why not,” Stan replied evenly as they piled up the last of that day’s count up. Patty was giggling into her shirt sleeve, and it was apparent she saw all of the reasons they could not get bean-bag chairs to count in instead of desks. Patty’s hair was down for the most part, some of the thick curls were caught up in a claw clip on the back of her head. He had the strange urge to brush the stray hair falling into her face away.

“Okay,” she shrugged with another bright grin. He smiled back at her. The door opened, and Dan was standing on the other side.

“‘All done here?”

“For lunch,” Stan replied easily, straightening his pants as he stood. He fixed two piles of coins on the desk, and then stepped towards the door. He was piddling, messing around in his mind to figure out exactly how to invite Patty to eat lunch with him and his friends. He mentioned Eddie that he wanted to, and Eddie thought it was a good idea. “So, Pat-” he looked up and Dan was staring at him confusedly. She was already gone.

He sighed, and walked back to his desk to find Ben to head over to the break room. Eddie was sitting on Ben’s criss-crossed. He looked positively chuffed. He was nearly laughing as he told Ben some sort of story effervescently. Stan almost laughed, himself, when Eddie caught his eye. Eddie watched him cross the room. “Where’s Pat?” He asked.

“Pat?” Ben asked, looking between the two.

“Already gone. Must have had plans,” Stan shrugged.

“Pat is Stan’s new counting buddy.” Eddie explained.  
  
“Pat as in the Pat you hated?” Ben clarified with a thick swallow.

“Turns out Pat’s pretty decent. Nice, even.” Stan scuffed his feet on the ground. “Anyway. It’s not important. What were you,” he poked Eddie’s knee, “talking about before?” He asked with a smile gracing the corner of his mouth.

“The date,” Ben nearly _sighed_ . The big fucking romantic _sap_.

“I liked the restaurant. I've never had sushi before.” Eddie commented happily, fiddling with loose threads at the bottom of his knickers. “If my mom found out I ate raw fish she'd make me into sushi, but that's neither here nor there.” Ben laughed gently, fiddling with his computer screen. He was still working on the PowerPoint he had been working on all week. “But I honestly think my favorite part was after. We just went back to hang out as his place.”

“He…” Stan paused, unsure why he was so surprised himself, “lives by himself?”

“Yeah!” Eddie enthused, not noticing Stan’s cautious tone of voice. Stan felt comfort in exchanging a wary glance with Ben, who seemed to have the same reservations Stan did.

“What college does he go to?” Ben asked politely, pretending to do things on his computer but having lost his focus.

“He graduated.”

“In the spring?”

“Last year.”

“...I see.” Ben shut his laptop quickly. He glanced to Stan. Stan already has mouth partially open, he was just trying to frame his reaction properly. Ben winced, because he didn't think there was anyway Stan could talk about this that wouldn't at least mildly irritate Eddie. “You guys wanna go grab some cide-”

“How old _is_ Noah, Eddie?” Stan interrupted bluntly. Ben wrinkled his nose and sat back in his chair.

“23.” Eddie fiddled with his shoelaces as he answered. Stan’s eyebrows were nesting somewhere near his hairline.

“23?” Stan clarified even though there was no doubt he heard Eddie correctly. Eddie was rearing up with some sort of sassy comment, Stan could see the words bubbling in his mouth, so Stan kept talking. “That’s a five year difference.”  
“So?” Eddie rolled his eyes, and hopped off the desk. Ben looked nervously in between the two of them. “When I’m 25, he’d be 30.”

“You’re 18,” Stan reminded him flatly. “When he was 18, you were 13.”  
  
“Good thing we’re not going back in time, isn’t it, then?” Eddie hopped off the desk, and it was clear that he was officially ready for the conversation to be _over_. Ben put his computer where Eddie had vacated, and stood. He pushed his chair in to the empty space, turning to them. Stan tried to keep his opinion to himself for a few more seconds, but ultimately lost.

“Eddie, don’t you thi-”

“No, no, Stan. I don’t _think_.” Eddie spoke over him fiercely as they walked through the office. Ben was clearly nervous about it, putting himself in between the two. He kept glancing over to the other desks, worried about being overheard.

“Well, _clearly_.” Stan muttered to himself, brushing nonexistent dust off his pants. Eddie stopped walking and reared on Stan, face pink with fury. The boy sometimes had the temper of a particularly yappy chihuahua.

“What is your problem?” Eddie fussed, stepping closer to Stan, looking outrageous in his feathered hat.

“My problem is that-”

“Nope.” Ben commented lightly about their rising tempers. “Not in the middle of the hall.” He grabbed both of them by backs of the neck. Stan was pretty indignant about getting hauled down a hallway. Ben’s grip on his neck was firm. He dropped Eddie to open the door to a closet, which Stan recognized from the summer before. Eddie frequently showed up at the offices and shoved him into it when he wanted to talk about something stupid. Most of the time it was a boy from Grindr. Ben shut the door behind them and yanked the chain on the ceiling. “We fight in closets,” he told them, crossing his arms over his chest. “Like men.”

“How is this manly-”

“Why does it matter how old he is?” Eddie and Stan spoke at the same time. “I’m of age,” Eddie continued when Stan’s eyes were on him.

“Nothing says romance like fucking the youngest person you won’t go to jail for.” Stan countered sharply. He heard Ben groan into his hands next to him and Eddie was practically spitting with rage. Stan could admit it was a hot-headed thing to say. He just didn’t see any justifiable reason for Noah wanting to be with someone who hadn’t even gone to college yet. There were plenty of reasons for Eddie to want to be with Noah.

“That is,” Eddie reeled, “first of all, I:” he clearly didn’t know how to start his comeback, “entirely uncalled for,” Ben seemed to be doing his best job and sinking into the shelves of cleaning supplies behind him. “We haven’t even had sex yet, he won’t even-” Stan blinked. “But that is the FARTHEST thing from the point, anyway.” Eddie crossed his arms with irritation.

“Okay.” Stanley said plaintively. “Fine.”  
  
It wasn’t at all fine, but Stan could say it was.

“It’s clearly not fine, Stan.”

Eddie always was perceptive.

“So, by all means:” Eddie waved a hand around in front of himself frivolously. “Get it all out there.”

Stan inwardly balked. He was sure his outward expression remained perfectly neutral.

He had watched Eddie be an insecure son of a bitch for _years_. It was nice, truly nice, to see Eddie grow into his own skin for a little bit. But, as nice as Noah seemed, and he was _so_ fucking nice, Stan knew that the entire thing couldn’t end well. He just didn’t want to see Eddie get hurt. It wasn’t as if Stan thought that Noah was a bad guy or would do it intentionally, but the entire situation sat oddly with him.

“I don’t know if it’s best for you to be dating someone who’s in such a different place in life than you,” Stan replied quietly after a moment.

“Because you know as well as I do how much luck I’ve had with boys my age.” Eddie countered easily. “Driving forty five minutes for a rushed netflix and chill in their parent’s basement was _really_ the time of my life.”

Eddie had had a rough time seeing anybody. Stan ended up being the person he talked to about a lot of it because Stan ended up driving him to meet several boys - and listening to him be disappointed the entire way back. Stan didn’t know if he could take listening to Eddie be disappointed for the rest of the summer if this all went south - and it was going to, Stan could feel it in his bones.

“It doesn’t need to be forever,” Eddie mentioned softly. He sounded sane - as rational as Eddie ever did. “It can just be a thing for now...but please, Stan.” Stan looked down, finally making eye contact with Eddie. “Let me have this.” _You're being overly defensive_ , Eddie's voice told him, _and you know it_. And he knew Eddie's voice speaking in his head, which was all in all a little creepy, was right. He was reminded in that moment of how limited Eddie's options could be - and he really shouldn't have needed the reminder. Stan had a hard time remembering sometimes that Eddie didn't necessarily have the opportunities for dating he did. It wasn't as if he could drop Noah and have thousand other options on the other side of the door. Stan felt bad for judging - but his wariness was unsolved. It wasn't Noah himself, or Eddie, obviously, but just the entire situation. 

“Okay... fine.” Stan actually relented that time, loosening his body posture and glancing at Ben who seemed to exhale relief as the tension melted in the closet a bit.

But Stan wouldn’t apologize.

“We should go guys,” Ben commented quietly. “Richie’s texting the group chat.”

At that particular moment, just the sound of that dumbass’ name made Stan want to rip his goddamned hair out. 

* * *

 “Where the fuck is everybody?” Richie announced when he reached their usual lunch table fashionably late. He was planning a dramatic entrance and everything. But the only one of them sitting there was Mike.

“I don’t know,” Mike commented quietly. “I thought I was having one of those middle school nightmares where everyone unanimously decided they hated me and not to sit with me anymore.” Mike sat alone, playing with his phone at their lunch table. 

Richie wrinkled his nose. “I really want to make fun of you for that,” he admitted, sitting across from Mike in the round table, “but I kind of know what you mean.” Mike smiled and stabbed at his salad. “Uh,” he licked his lips and opened the container of Shepherd’s Pie he grabbed from the one stand. He thought about apologizing for being late himself. It’s shitty to sit by yourself. “How was your morning?” Somehow the words just didn’t come out. Richie texted the groupchat a quick " _where tf are yall_ " for good measure.

“Alright,” Mike shrugged, “I got attacked by the gates by my assassin.”  
  
“Really?” Richie chewed as he asked.

“Yeah, but Bev was there and I think Bev scared the shit out of him. I think his name’s Roy, works in receiving.” Mike shrugged. “He didn’t get me, and now I know who he is.”  
  
“He fucked up,” Richie laughed. Richie had been attacked a fair share of times himself that summer, but he was wiry and he was fucking fast. Running from someone with a permanent marker was nothing compared to running from a bully. It had been years since he’d been bullied but the running seemed ingrained in his system.

They heard a bright bought of laughter from just outside the open doors of the break room. They looked up just in time to see Beverly and Bill walking towards them. Bev was nearly buckled over in laughter, hand gripping Bill’s forearm. Bill was laughing, too, but Richie could tell he was much more focused on Bev’s hold on his arm. Richie wanted to groan into his mashed potatoes and for different reasons than normal.

“Oh, shit.” Mike stood up quickly when his phone rang. “Hello! Hi! Yes. I was the one who- yes. Responded to your ad. I was hoping you’d get back to me-” he trailed off as he wandered out of the break room and outside. Bill glanced at Richie, asking with his face if he knew what that was all about. Richie shrugged because he had no idea.

“What’s so funny?” He asked the two of them, scooping peas out of the bottom of his dish.

“Well, I-” Bev looked to Bill and peeled off in laughter again. “I don’t think I can explain it.”  
  
Bill was still all done up in his knight gear. It was the first time Richie had seen it with the whole shabang. It was suiting in some weird way. Richie thought Bill _was_ a knight when they were kids.

“Where’s Mary?” Bev asked, already scratching at her itchy dress. Lead performers were given longer than everyone else for meals, provided they had to change out of the entire costume, because if they spilled on it they were _royally_ fucked. Mary typically helped Bev wiggle in and out of her costume, it was tight as all hell. Richie learned that the hard way their first summer together.

Richie scratched at his nose, “I haven’t seen her.” He hadn’t. He hadn’t seen anyone but Mike in the breakroom at all. He’d be nervous he was missing something important, but that would require _caring_ about his job. So he didn’t.

Bev wrinkled her nose, pulling at the ribbons in her corset with an expression she didn’t think was pouty but was definitely pouty. Richie wiped his hands off on his pants. People threw tomatoes at him. It was literally his job. He never had to change for lunch.

“Need a hand?” He offered non-commitally.

Bev nodded her appreciative way, and he followed her to the back. Richie imagined 12 year old him would consider the entire situation the stuff of the highest quality of wet dreams. 18 year old him knew it was the least sexy thing in the world. It was hot, Bev naturally sweated under all of those layers and it wasn’t the most pleasant smelling, her dress normally clung to her waist and had to be wiggled off. He did it anyway without question.

He started pulling at the ribbons in her corset in the special way he learned after Jo almost took his eye out one summer when he rucked up the ribbons in an effort to get the damn thing _off_.

“So…” he drawled, “what was that?”

“What was what?” Bev didn’t turn back, but met his eye in the mirror across from them. He smirked at her.

“Oh, Mr. Knight,” he practically swooned in a delicate voice, “you are just _so_ delightfully witty that I must grip thine fine arm in an attempt to keep myself upright.” He laughed at the end of his own impression.

Beverly looked amazingly unamused.

“You know, Richie, sometimes I can’t tell if you’re jealous of Bill or me.” She cut back coldly. His hands froze on the ribbons. “I’m sorry,” she breathed in the next moment. She snapped back into shape, as if she had just been stretched very thin. “I don’t know what that was,” she breathed honestly. Richie didn't know if she was talking about her comment or her moment with Bill. He didn't know what the hell her comment was about, so it had to be both. Richie drummed his fingertips on her waist. “I just…” she sighed as best she could in the tight garments. “I think that I was…” she fell off again. She shrugged. “He is funny. He’s my friend, you know that?”  
  
Richie hummed.

“I don’t like him, you know that?”  
  
“I do know that.” Richie nodded quietly. He did. It was part of why he hated listening to Bill ramble about Bev so _very_ much.

“I don’t know, Rich.” Bev reached to rub at her eye. Richie batted at her hands before she got there, she always forgot how much eye makeup she wore at work. “Oh. Thanks.” He went back to work quickly, loosening the corset with deft fingers. “You ever just get the feeling you want to be kissing somebody?”  
  
“No,” he snorted, tugging the ribbons out so that they were loose enough the corset could slip over Bev’s head. “if I want to be making out with somebody I go find someone.”

Bev pulled a face. Richie saw it in the mirror. He unzipped her dress, and grabbed it by the shoulders. She shimmied it down her bod, stepping out somewhat ungracefully as soon as he held it by her ankles. “What?” He asked finally. He hoisted her dress up. It was fucking obnoxiously heavy. He hung it quickly, to get the weight off his hands. He seriously thought it might weigh more than Eddie.

“It’s more dangerous for me to do that.” She told him, not crossly but not happily either. He thought about how even the smallest amount of pushiness from someone could be downright awful for Bev. He regretted snorting.

He wordlessly handed her her hoodie. She was still wearing a number of undergarments, these weird puffed pants and her bra. She thanked him quietly, slipping it over her head.

“Well, you know…” he said after a moment, shoving his hands towards his pockets. “You could always ask him, you know, casually, and just be like, hey, Bil-”  
  
“No.” She interrupted with a blink. She didn’t tolerate him pitching Bill to her. She never had.

“Okay,” he replied simply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my ... heart was cringing writing that texting scene please know this. sorry !! about the chapter of bickering. things are getting tight. our kiddos spend a Lot of time together. i'd love to know what you think !!!
> 
> on a Side Note: I've reached a goal (!!!) I was really looking forward to on my tumblr account tossertozier. I'm running a Giveaway on there.  
> Details can be found here for the basic idea of it: https://tossertozier.tumblr.com/post/168532901109/hi-yall-its-me-i-write-on-pointe
> 
> okay WHEW this is just my little appreciation contest to say thanks :)) for reading and supporting i appreciate y'all more than you know... and i enjoy writing this so so much. thank you all, have an Awesome day!!!


	12. Chapter 12

 “Mike,” Stan blinked in the doorway of the Tozier household. “What the fuck is that?”

“I want twelve thousand of them.” Richie made grabby-hands for it instantaneously.

“Don’t touch him, he’s scared!” Mike curled his arms defensively into his chest, cradling the creature carefully. Stan blinked, and looked to Bill, who was a step behind Mike. Bill shrugged in a “ _you try and stop him_ ” way. Stan looked in between Bill, and Richie, and then back to Mike. No, Stan hadn’t been driven more insane than he already was, apparently, because Mike was standing on Richie’s welcome mat clutching a hedgehog as if it were made of diamonds.

“Bill, you have his things?” Mike stepped into the house, ducking past Richie who made another grab for the hedgehog.

“Yes, dear.” Bill joked with a grin. Stan gave him a stern ‘why did you let him get that’ look. Bill responded with a ‘what do you want from me’ shrug.

“Can you get the notebook out? We’ll need to set him up a space for tonight.” Mike already his made his way into Richie’s kitchen, peering out at the falling light in the backyard.

“Hi there, little guy,” Richie cooed, sticking his finger near the hedgehog’s face. If that idiot lost a finger, Stan was not driving him to the hospital or going to have any pity. “Where’d you come from?”

“Mike was on Craigslist again.” Bill explained, dropping the tote bag from Trader Joe’s filled with apparent hedgehog necessities on the counter. He grabbed a notebook from the bag and handed it over to Mike.

Mike had a habit of browsing the Craigslist free page for soon-to-be abandoned animals. “ _It’s heartless_ ,” Mike had defended to the group after they discovered this habit. “ _If people don’t get a response quick enough, they just leave them by the side of the road!”_ He then had to hide the various animals at the farm, because even if it was a farm, his grandparents were never thrilled about random animals running around, fancy that. Mike’s compassion really showed when it came to animals. The worst it ever was when a wild turkey had made its way onto the farm into the grazing pastures of the sheep. Mike had hid its presence for months.

_“Her name is Lucy,” Mike had showed them the turkey one day in one of the contained pastures. The turkey started screaming gobbles at them. Wild turkeys were much, much larger than Stan thought they were._

_“That’s a wild animal, Mike.” Ben had reminded him gently._

_“She’s my friend.” Mike smiled._

“Jesus, Mike,” Stan was tugged out of his thoughts by Richie’s loud amazement. He was holding 70 page spiral notebook filled with notes. It looked like roughly half of it was filled with notes. The front said HEDGEHOGS in black sharpie, and Stan could only imagine that’s what the contents were about. “When did you have time to do this?”

“Today.” Mike shrugged, as if everyone whipped out 35 pages of research on a casual Friday afternoon. “What did I write down about habitats?” 

* * *

 

Ben and Beverly made a pit-stop at her apartment on their way to Richie’s. He parked clumsily, he hated parallel parking with a passion. He turned off the car and sat back in his seat.

“You can come up, you know.” She offered.

He had been to her apartment a handful of times. Pick up, drop offs, pit-stops. The like. Never once had he actually gone inside. Or met her infamous Aunt Clara. He looked down at his outfit. His shirt was wrinkled. “It’s okay.” He shrugged.

“Ben,” she gave him a flat look, “it’s okay!” It melted into a soft, almost fond? amusement. He hoped it was fond, anyway. “I don’t even know if Ange is home, and trust me. You look fine. It’s hot as fuck, you shouldn’t wait in the car.” She didn’t press the issue though, opening his passenger door and slipping out. Deciding a half a second after he should have to go with her, he clamored out of his car. She heard him as she had already started her ascent up the steps to the building, and turned around with a bright smile.

“Ange?” Bev called into the apartment, shucking her shoes off by the door. The apartment was smaller than Ben thought it would be. It also might have seemed smaller due to the mess of wood in the living room. “What the fuck?” Bev asked softly, staring at the lumber?” Ben ditched his shoes as well, digging his finger into the heel to peel them off. “Ange!” She called again, more insistently.

“Beverly Beaver!” Aunt Clara replied cheerily from a room over. He heard loud, clacking footsteps towards them.

“We have a guest!!” Beverly warned her aunt hastily.

“Oh.” The footsteps stopped.

“Robe?” Bev asked with a smirk, crossing to their kitchen.

“Please.”

Ben stayed by the door until Beverly turned and waved him over with a small roll of her eyes. He followed her into her small kitchen, sitting on one of the stools by the island. Bev grabbed a robe from the nearby couch and opened the door to the room, and tossed it in.

“Want anything to drink?” Bev asked, wincing as she rubbed at the back of her neck. Beverly frequently had back pain from the corset and sitting on the stuffy throne for so long. Ben wrinkled his nose.

“You okay?” He asked, watching her try and reach a place at the top of her spine. He reached out for her shoulder gently. She stopped by the the stool, letting his fingers brush light as fresh snowfall over her shoulder. “Is this okay?”

“Uh,” she exhaled sharply. “Yeah! Yeah. It’s fine,” she turned around slowly, leaving her hand where it was, fingers still digging into what was bothering her. Ben steadied her with one hand, and with the other, pushed his thumb over her fingers. She sighed, and he dug into the muscle with a small circle rub of his thumb.

“Rough day?” Her aunt emerged from the room. Ben blinked at her. She was wearing a black with that almost fell to her hips and the most garrish, dark makeup Ben had ever seen in real life.

“Same old,” Bev shrugged, rolling her shoulders back as Ben moved his thumb down a little bit. “This is Ben.” She nodded over her shoulder at him, accidentally flicking, dark red hair in his direction.

“Hey,” Ben removed one hand from her shoulder and offered it politely to Clara. “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much.”

Clara’s nails were incredibly long and pointed and painted a deep back. She shook his hand with a mirthful smile. “I thought it was you.”

Ben didn’t know what to make of that. He ran his fingers through the ends of Beverly’s hair, untangling it just a little bit, and maneuvered it back over her shoulder.

“Tea, anyone?” Clara offered as Ben returned his hands to Beverly’s shoulders, thumbs pressing into the muscles.

“Is that a good thing?” Ben muttered to the back of Bev’s head as Clara passed by them, still massaging her shoulders.  

Bev laughed and turned back to look at him for a second. “Yeah, Ben.” She smiled. “It’s a good thing.” 

* * *

 

“I’m taking a shot if we’re building a hedgehog house.” Richie announced loudly. Mike looked up at him with a flat look. They were sitting in the grass of Richie’s backyard. Their feet were pressed together, making a small hedgehog fence. Mike wasn’t ready to let the little guy out of his sight for more than a few seconds. He was badly shaken when he picked him up at that house. It seemed to Mike like the hedgehog was the fascination of a thirteen year old girl for about thirty six seconds, and then she got bored of it and the parents hated him. His conditions definitely weren’t right.

“Where’s Benny-boy?” Richie turned and asked Bill, who was leaning up against the railing of the porch with Stan. “Seems like this is right up his alley.”

“With Bev.” Bill answered simply, examining his fingernails like he didn’t care. Mike could roll his eyes. It was his own fault he didn’t have a damn car to drive Bev home when she needed to.

“Where’s Eddie-boy?” Stan asked Richie specifically, leaning over the banister. Mike was glad Richie’s face was turned away from him, because his eyes met Bill’s and he cringed. He remembered he and Richie’s riff in his room yesterday well. He didn’t think Richie needed any more prodding.

“Iz dooz not knowz,” Richie replied in the most god awful French accent Mike had ever heard. “Iz dooz not carez.” He turned back to the hedgehog. As soon as he did, Bill smacked Stan’s shoulder. Stan looked strikingly unapologetic. “What,” he waggled a finger at the hedgehog again. “iz naming iz?”

“What?” Mike asked, genuinely confused.

“What’s his name,” Bill clarified. Stan had disappeared into the house. Probably to fill Richie’s request for alcohol. Bill spoke fluent Richie.

“Oh,” Mike watched him walk around for a second. “I dunno.”

“Haggis.” Richie announced as if an angel came down from the skies above and whispered it into his ears and it was just so.

“What?” Mike wrinkled his nose. “No.”

“ _What_ ,” Richie whined, “come on! he looks like a Haggis! He actually just looks like Haggis.” Mike set his hands on his knees and fixed Richie with a serious stare. “It’s ironic.” Richie further insisted.

“Ironic? To keep an animal named Haggis on a sheep farm?”

“Yes!”

Mike narrowed his eyes.

“How about Henry?” Bill offered helpfully from the porch. He opened the door for Stan who had his hands full of mugs. “Hank?”

“It’s too late, Billyboy.” Richie replied, sounding mournful even though he clearly wasn’t. “Haggis,” he did sparkly fingers above the poor little hedgehog’s head, like he was blessing it or something. “It was written in the stars.” 

“I don’t even want an explanation for whatever bullshit is going on right now,” Stan said quietly as he set down the mugs. Mike laughed.  

* * *

 

“Christ, guys,” Bev didn’t bother knocking, she threw open the door to the Tozier household. There was already an empty bottle of cheap vodka on the floor. “You already started drinking? The sun’s barely gone down.”

She and Ben stayed at hers much longer than she intended to. Ben got along blissfully well with Ange, but she could get along with anybody. They talked for a full hour about the summer and Ben’s job and their plans for college. The time had gone by with the brush of her eyelashes, she swore it.

“Turns out:” Richie announced from his spot on the couch. He was on it upside down, back on the seat, legs thrown over the back of it. “Newspaper? Not an ideal fence.”

“I put it into a box,” Stan explained easily from his spot in the armchair. “I figured Ben could help Mike deal with it when you guys got here.”

“Where is Mike?” Ben asked at the same time Bev asked.

“Put what in a box?”

“Haggis.” Richie answered simply. There was newspaper scattered across the coffee table. Stan was folding a small bird with nimble fingers. There were several paper airplanes by the wall, presumably thrown by Richie.

Ben ran a hand over his face, “it’s too early for you two to start not making any sense.” Bev kicked off her shoes by the door, even though Richie’s shoes were still on his feet. Stan hadn’t had much to drink, she could tell by the movements of his hands over the paper. Richie...was always difficult to read.

“I’m getting a drink,” she turned to Ben, “want one?” 

Bev thought she could reach out and literally touch the time slipping through her fingers. Actually, it felt like the summer was slipping through her fingers already. She and Ben quickly learned Haggis was a hedgehog Mike decided to adopt and didn’t have a place to put. Ben and Mike worked something out in the backyard. It was then after ten p.m. then. They put on a movie but no one watched it. They were still folding the newspapers that Richie’s dad got daily. Bev was vaguely aware there was something on her head. Oh, yes. Bill made them all hats, after he had made them their own paper boats. She had a few shots, she didn’t really keep track, didn’t really need to. Beverly was feeling light, pleasantly buzzed and mildly float-y. She pressed herself back against the chair from her spot on the floor. She was sitting in between Richie’s legs. She tilted her head back on Richie’s knee, glancing up at him.

“Sup, Bevver?” He asked gently, running his fingers through her hair by her face. His glasses were falling off his nose, and his mouth was just barely hinting at amusement.

For the first time in a very long time, she thought about kissing him. She thought about his hands in her hair in a very different way, and they way she taught him to hold her waist. She blinked hard.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

“Nothing.” She replied quickly, turning away quicker. Ben was watching her from the couch. He pretended he wasn’t as soon as she caught his eye. She sighed, inching away from Richie. She had no idea where that thought came from, but it wasn’t welcomed back. She hadn’t thought that way in a _long_ time. She shifted the direction of her legs, leaning into Bill, who was propped up on his elbows, working on the coffee table. Mike and Stan were sitting on the couch, Mike with his body turned into Stan. Stan, looking as amused as Stan ever was, had his feet in Mike’s lap. They were providing the soundtrack for the room, talking loudly about what was going on in assassin.

She dropped her chin on Bill’s shoulder, “whatcha doin?”

Bill looked at his paper monstrosity. “This was gonna be something,” he explained, staring down at it. “But I don’t remember what now. I don’t know what I’m doing.” He laughed when she did, sitting back from the table and more into her touch. She shifted again, opening her arms and shifting her leg so it opened on the other side of Bill.

Bill fell into her chest, wrapping his arm over one of her forearms.

“If it’s any consolation, I think it’s a beautiful something.” She told him gently. She _so_ thoroughly enjoyed the gentle scrape of his fingernails on his forearm, his soft hair brushing her shoulder, her neck.

“Yeah, well,” he looked up at her. Bill had bluer eyes than she remembered. “You’d know a little bit about beautiful, wouldn’t you?” He smiled.

 _Weed_ , she thought somewhere in the back of her mind. That’s what she _really_ wanted, not the touch of Bill Denbrough.

“Hardly,” she scoffed. “Where’s your weed, Rich?” She turned back to Richie.

“Hmm?” He didn’t look up. He was staring down at his phone. He didn’t seem to be doing anything on it, just watching it.

“Earth to Richie: operation: weed.” She repeated slowly, feeling Bill shift in her hold a little bit.

“Oh, yes,” Mike patted his hands on Stan’s calves. They clapped loudly. “Please, it’s been so long.”

Stan wrinkled his nose. He didn’t smoke. Bill and Ben didn’t say anything. They didn’t like cross-fading, or mixing weed and alcohol.

Bev extracted herself from Bill, who sat up dutifully. She brushed her hands over her jeans. They reached all the way to her belly-button. She wore a plain cropped sweatshirt on top that didn’t quite meet the waistband. It had a picture of Mickey Mouse on it.

“Y’all really want to get cross-faded tonight?” Richie asked skeptically, finally looking up from his phone. Bev looked to Mike. He nodded, and so she did as well. Richie looked from them to his phone. It didn’t have whatever he wanted it to. “Fuck it, okay,” he tossed it flippantly on to his seat and stood. Bev offered her hand to him and he took it.

He twirled her under his arm, and they clumsily climbed the stairs together.

Richie’s room was never as messy as she expected it to be. Granted, most nights of the summer he slept at Bill’s. But they hung out there during the school year not uncommonly. It had a queen-size bed with dark blue bedding and grey walls and was overall generally tidy. She flopped down on the bed. Richie ducked down to grab a backpack under his bed. He smoked a lot more often during the school year. It was rare that he and Bill smoked at the Denbroughs. Bill was worried Georgie could smell it. Richie sat down on the bed next to her. She wondered if he could tell how weird her mood was, as he sat down with enough caution that they didn't touch. He started preparing the blunts, grabbing a dollar from the wallet in his back pocket. She watched him for a moment with mild interest, before looking back up at his ceiling. They hadn't bothered to turn on a light. The only light was the light from the hall.

Richie coughed. “What’s up with you and-”

“I dunno.” She interrupted him because she didn't want to answer his questions about Bill. Anyone's, in particular, but especially Richie, who started shoving Bill on her as soon as they stopped being a thing. It was an almost creepy brotherhood thing, she thought. 

“Are you gonna-”

“I dunno.” She interrupted again.

“Do you want to?”

The room fell silent for a moment. She didn't know what to answer.  She didn't know what she wanted. 

“Just,” she said after a long beat, “keep an eye on me, okay?”

“Kay.”   

* * *

 

Noah had his hand at the base of Eddie’s throat and at any other point it would terrify him but they were kissing and he really thought about welding it in place there.

Eddie had been kissed before and in the past he thought the general notion of a good kisser was something made up to make everyone feel bad about themselves. Eddie was wrong, because Noah was somehow achingly slow and searingly hot, tongue meeting Eddie's at only the right times, his thumb tapping a steady beat against the hollow of his throat. Eddie simultaneously felt like was going to pop a boner and like he was going to throw up. But only the best way. If there was a good kind of vomit. Noah made it seem possible. The car was still on, cool air-conditioning ruffling Eddie's hair back away from his face. Eddie had no idea what time it was but he could have spent hours there in that car, in the street by the Tozier household. He had asked Noah to drop him off there after the festival. Which Eddie barely understood, the films that was, and sort of felt like a goddamned idiot but he still managed to enjoy it.

He thought idly about inviting Noah in to hang out with his friends. Then thought about Noah, with his button up shirt that fit nicely with the little checks on it, and his brown oxford shoes and brown belt and dress pants, sitting likely on the floor, while his friends talked about probably the dumbest bullshit they could manage? Nothing about that picture made sense. He shooed it away.

Noah broke their kiss, and Eddie's eyes popped open. He was flooded with sudden insecurity, that his kissing got bad, that he wasn't paying enough attention. “Do you want to,” Noah leaned forward. He rested his hand on Eddie’s leg, warm and big on the skin just beyond his knee. Eddie hated that his breath hitched. “You can, uh,” Noah kissed him again, gently and Eddie was worried he actually couldn’t breathe. “Come back to mine,” his hand was gripping Eddie’s leg and he actually thought he might die. “If you want to.”

Eddie was ready to bash his head through the window. Noah had graciously turned him down all three times he tried to initiate something of a vaguely sexual nature. Eddie could practically hear Stan reminding him in the back of his head about starting slow but Eddie felt like he had waited long enough, Christ. He had no patience, not anymore. But 

“I can’t,” he pressed his forehead to Noah’s, feeling like an idiot. "I'm sorry." He felt sorry for somebody alright, but he thought it might actually be himself. 

"It's okay," Noah insisted, rubbing his thumb on Eddie's leg.

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

Noah almost laughed. "Text me." He replied simply, kissing Eddie's cheek. Eddie leaned in, and caught his lips once more before he sat back. He felt Noah smile into their kiss. His hand came up to brush his face as they parted.

Eddie thought about the small brush of skin all the way into Richie's house... until he was hit with the strong scent of weed in the living room.

“Eddie!” Richie almost dropped the blunt in his haste to hand it to Stan, who didn’t want it. Richie was formerly perched on the armrest of the armchair that Stan was occupying. Richie was high, there was no doubt, as he enthusiastically crossed the room to Eddie. So was Mike, he observed, because Mike was laying out across the entirety of the couch with a lackadasical smile, including the piece of the couch currently occupied by Ben. He was so amused by the picture, Bev sitting on the floor practically in the lap of Bill, that he missed Richie practically sweeping him up into his arms.

“Ach- fucking, Christ, Trashmouth.” Richie gave them an odd, intoxicated spin. “You’re going to kill me,” he commented, noticing the sway in Richie’s step.

“Nah,” he set Eddie down with a broad smile. He practically draped himself over Eddie...the way he hadn’t in weeks. He shoved his face into Eddie’s hair. “Missed you, Sketti.”

“Rich,” Eddie replied privately, feeling the eyes of his friends on his face. He tapped Richie’s far from sober hands that were wrapped around his shoulders, “I saw you,” he glanced at the clock on the wall. It was just past 11. “Six hours ago.”

“Thought you’d be here sooner,” Richie mumbled into his scalp. Eddie froze under his touch. He didn’t know what to do when Richie did this. He never knew what to do. He thought this was over with, he really did. Or, maybe, some rational piece of him knew it wasn’t. Ever since the whole...Eddie didn’t even know when it started. But lately, if he let himself melt into Richie, Richie bolted out. If he pulled himself out, Richie got this weird, crumpled look on his face. There was no winning. He looked helplessly to Bill.

“Rich,” Bill called over, looking flushed and happy when Bev set her face in the crook of his neck. “Can I get a beer?”

Richie’s breathing faltered at the sound of Bill’s voice, as if he had managed to forget that they were in the presence of his friends. That he was even actually curled into Eddie. He practically jumped away from Eddie, “roger that, Cap’n.” He saluted Bill awkwardly. Stan sighed and shoved his face into his hands. “Fighter Pilot Tozier landing on the Kitchen Island Live in 3, 2, 1-” Richie acted theatrically like a plane as he tumbled into his kitchen. Eddie crossed into the living room, taking the blunt from Stan who still held it with disdain, and took a long, slow drag. It was dwindling down to the bare stub. He inhaled all the way into his chest, the way Richie taught him. He never got used to the burn, and he coughed harshly. Beverly reached out, indicating she’d like the last of it, fingers twitching in Eddie’s direction. He handed the blunt to her gracelessly. She was just far enough away to not be able to reach. Bill grabbed it for her.

“How was the date?” Stan opened his arms, and offered his lap to Eddie. Eddie normally would have objected, but he actually did want to tell Stan about it. He sat sideways in the arm chair, throwing his legs over one of the armrests.

“Good,” Eddie watched what was happening on the floor carefully. Bill held the blunt directly to Beverly’s mouth instead of her picking up the nub with her fingers. She turned around to him, elegant fingers dropped down to his lips, and they fell open. She leaned in, and blew the smoke into his mouth. Eddie blinked with surprise, turning to Stan with a _‘what the fuck is that?’_ look on his face.

“Don’t fucking ask.”

“Get Ben a whiskey, too, Rich-” Eddie called into the kitchen. Ben looked up. He was talking to Mike, who was flopped half on his stomach. He looked to the floor, at Bev and Bill. Bill was stamping out the rest of the blunt. He swallowed, and nodded, very small-y and once, at Eddie.

“Whiskey?” Richie replied loudly from the kitchen. “We’re goin’ all out tonight, huh, fellers?” Eddie didn’t even know what that accent was supposed to be. Neither did Richie, he assumed.

“Well, we’re out of weed.” Eddie hollered back. Richie rounded the corner with the bottle of whiskey and the beer. He frowned at the scene in front of him.

“Something wrong,” Stan’s hands curled around Eddie’s waist in a manner extremely un-Stan-like. Eddie realized in one instant that Stan was drunker than Eddie thought he was. “Richard?”

“Edward stole my seat,” he replied with an easy shrug, eyes glancing down to Stan’s hands and back to Eddie’s face quickly. “No matter,” he set the bottles on the coffee table and flopped down to the floor, “for a true King,” the posh English accent was out, “any seat is a throne.”

“Do you,” Bill cracked open the can of the beer, his hands basically in Bev’s lap, “want a drink, Eddie?”

“Nah,” Eddie shook his head. Stan’s hands dropped from his waist. Mike seemed to be nearly asleep on Ben. “I actually did want the weed, but it’s fine.” He shrugged.

Richie’s head tipped back on the floor, looking up at Eddie from the odd angle.

“I have more?” He offered. “Wanna smoke it?”

“Outside, please.” Stan countered quickly. Eddie looked to him with confusion. “Sorry, the smell is giving me a headache.” Eddie didn’t even think that was a thing and if it was he didn’t believe him.

“I’m coming!” Mike started to haul himself up. “Give me the weed stick!” Ben laughed and tugged him back down, looping his arms over his shoulders.

“You’re cut off.”

“Why?”

“Because you said ‘weed stick.’”

Richie was already on his feet, small baggy in hand, watching Eddie. Eddie looked back to him. “Eds?” He asked gently, hand shoved into his pocket. He looked oddly vulnerable.

“Coming.” He hoisted himself out of the chair, feeling Stan’s eyes on his back. Richie looped an easy arm over his shoulder and they strolled out to the back yard.

“Watch out for Haggis.” Richie warned as he opened the door.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll tell ya’ later.”

The first half of the blunt passed in relative silence. They laid in the grass that rustled in the soft breeze of the night. Eddie listened to the bugs chirping, singing their own little song. It was difficult to see stars on a cloudy night, but a few peaked through. It wasn’t necessarily an uncomfortable silence. Eddie didn’t feel words getting choked in the back of his throat like he did sometimes. His heart was pounding anyway, even if it had no reason to. He handed the blunt back to Richie. Their fingers brushed as he handed it over.

“Hey, Eds?”

“Yeah?” 

“You ever think about stop-signs?”  

“No,” Eddie replied flatly.

“When do you think they got invented?”

“I have no fucking clue, Rich.”

“Probably a fucking long ass time ago. Probably before. Like. The phonogram. Or lube.” Eddie didn't know why his heart was still beating in a way that felt loud to him. “You know. They’ve just. Been there. Maybe not forever, but as long as I can remember clearly.” Richie took another drag. Eddie tried to reach for the blunt again, but Richie held it vaguely out of his reach. “I never really thought of them as there, though. I don’t fucking know.” Another drag. Eddie gave up on reaching for it, settling back into the grass. It was Richie’s weed, anyway.  

Eddie waited and Richie didn’t continue. “Like. Yeah…” he didn’t really have a response to that. “As far as we know, they’ve always been there.”

“Right. They’ve always been there. You think they’re always gonna be there, right?”

“I mean. I guess. I hadn’t put much thought to it.”

“That’s exactly it! You hadn’t!” Richie took another drag of the blunt. Eddie wasn’t high enough for this conversation, he didn’t think. Richie’s level of cross-fading had him somewhere a mile above Eddie and while Eddie was sure his high-brain would comprehend whatever Richie was trying to say just fine, but Eddie was behind. “They’re always. Just there, not something you really thought about, like. Being there. You’re not thinking like, fuck, that’s a good-ass stop sign. Because it’s just been there. And will be there. Or it’s supposed to be there. And so, like, if one day, the stop sign was all like ‘hey whaddup, fuck you, bye’ one, that’d be crazy, and like, two, it’d be like. What? And you’d be all ‘what the fuck’ and then you’d? Probably miss them? They’re like. Important. To everyone, yeah, but like. Also to you. But you didn’t really notice them before and you’re not even sure what the fuck you’re supposed to be missing or maybe what you’re missing is that you didn’t even stop to give a damn in the first pla-”

“Richie,” Eddie flopped over on his side, tucking his hand underneath his head. His brain was buzzing and his eyelids were heavy. “what are you talking about?”

“I-” Richie’s words finally fell off his tongue. He took a drag of the blunt instead of answering.

Eddie laughed. “You’re high, aren’t you?”

Richie glanced down at him, turning his head to the side in the grass. His eyes glanced from Eddie’s eyes, to his mouth, back to his eyes. Eddie licked his lips. A small laugh huffed in Richie’s chest. “I guess I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout out to my tumble friend tozierspaghetti who is one just so kind to chat with about this fic and two helped me come up with the lucy the turkey concept and...i love ha. 
> 
> i am V tired and anything i say here Will nOt be coherent but Thank u! to those of u who leave comments pls know i am currently building a rocketship and you're all INVITED on it there'll be hedgehogs and mac n cheese thank u


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i thought it would come to this but i wasn't sure, but this just underwent a rating change. there won't be explicit smut in this at any point in time, but i use the M tag generally for mentions of sexual situations - just a note.   
> anyway, onward!

 “Mike,” Bev asked him that Monday morning when she opened his truck door, “why is Haggis in the back?” She stared at him with the same wary distance that she did when they first met.

“I was thinking we’d call him Erwin,” Mike replied thoughtfully.

She gave him a pitying look, “oh, Mike. Baby,” she slid into the truck, dumping her bag on the floor. “You know that that animal's name is already Haggis, right, and there’s nothing you can do about it?”

He frowned, but he knew she wasn’t wrong, and so he turned the truck back on. “Yeah,” he sighed. “I guess.”

“So, not that I’m not digging the animal companion, because I am, but why are you taking him to the faire?” Haggis was sitting in a large wire cage in the back for safe travels, but he brought hay to spread out in the bed of the truck to make a small habitat for him while they were in the faire.

“I couldn’t figure out a space on the farm for him that Grandpa wouldn’t notice.” Mike shrugged, turning out of Bev’s neighborhood. “He’ll chill in the bed for today. He’ll be fine.”

“What if someone petnaps our Haggis?”

“Highly doubt it.” 

* * *

 “Hey, Edd- whoa,” Ben stopped a few feet short of the booth. Eddie had a rod in his hand, Rick a few steps behind him, running it along the surface of the heat-safe counter. Eddie didn’t even look up to acknowledge his presence, his focus so intent on the rod. Rick, an old guy with an impressive white beard and mustache that always had his hair back in a small, low, ponytail, did look up. He nodded politely at Ben.

“Back into the furnace,” Rick instructed gruffly. Ben noticed Eddie’s hands shook a little even in the thick gloves, but he complied. “That’s good enough for today. You can take lunch, Eddie,” he said, reaching out and taking the rod from Eddie, who held it steadily.

“That was cool, Eddie,” Ben encouraged him as Eddie peeled off the black leather apron that was more for appearances than anything else. “Bill worked here for years and I never saw him actually work with glass.”

“That’s because Eddie’s not a dumbass.” Rick grumbled. “I miss him. Tell him I said hey and to drag his knightly ass over here sometime.”

Eddie laughed a little bit, opening the little door to their booth. “Will do.”

Ben shoved his free hand, the one not holding a brown lunch bag, into his khaki pockets as they started up the path. He didn’t stop by every day, it was hardly on his way to the break room. Eddie assumed he had something to talk to him about, but he was stalling bringing it up.

“Hey, Eddie, do you know what happened on Saturday night?” Ben rambled out, looking mad at himself for his lack of tact.

“Uh,” Eddie tried to evade the question, scratching at the crown of his head, “I missed way more than you did, Ben.”

“I meant after I fell asleep.”

Eddie rubbed at his forehead. The honest answer was no, but he could make his assumptions. The honest answer was he sat outside with Richie for two hours smoking weed and then Richie rambled about stop signs and then they went upstairs and slept in Richie’s bed and Richie pretended very hard like he was not intentionally trying to touch Eddie. And then Eddie saw Bill and Bev leave the guest room together the next morning, which was the information Ben was actually after. “I was with Richie,” he replied. “We didn’t talk about anything important.”

“I was just wondering because, like,” Ben wrung his hands nervously in front of himself and Eddie just winced, automatically. “Bill and Bev were like...not that it’s any of my business,”

“Oh, Ben,” Eddie’s empathy kicked in in seven fold, “I-”

“Oh, god,” Ben smacked a hand on his face, halting his step for a moment. “I’m so sorry, Eddie,” he didn’t look at Eddie as he kept walking, past him, even. “I shouldn’t have even asked.” Eddie already sort-of had to power walk to keep up with his friends, so it was almost a jog with the hasty Ben, “I know Bill is, like, your best friend.”

“Hey,” Eddie stopped him with a firm grab on his arm. “So are you,” he told him earnestly.

It was a rare moment of genuine sincerity in the hustle of the Faire, which tumbled on, with or without them. A stilt walker wobbled their way through the faire on the other side of the square, and the man with the cotton candy cart was still mid disagreement with the middle aged man in the Link costume. Ben smiled tightly down at Eddie, and Eddie was fairly certain even he couldn’t quite comprehend just what they meant to him.

“Lunch?” Eddie asked, so Ben didn’t have to respond.

“I...uh. Yeah.” Ben nodded dumbly, and Eddie almost laughed, shaking his head. He turned back to their walk to the break room, which passed with much less drama, except, of course, when they neared the door and heard a joyous shout.

“Eddie, my boy!” Richie yelled at them from a few steps behind, grabbing Eddie and hoisting him up. Eddie fidgeted against him, all wily as he could be, so Richie would put him down.

“Your boy?” Ben asked skeptically.

“Eddie’s always been my boy,” Richie mercifully put him down. “Just as you are my man,” He snapped his fingers in front of Ben’s face, “keep up, Benward.” Eddie wanted to roll his eyes so far back into his head he could write essays about his brain.  “Of course, Eddie’s is not a chaste boy, not true to me,” for someone who could talk about their own heterosexuality as often as Richie could, and by god, could he talk about it, he seemed to have a deep fascination in Eddie’s sex life. Of course, everytime Eddie got remotely close to calling this out, Richie recoiled so hard he might have lost a few inches in height. And Eddie liked his best friend as he was, as obnoxiously tall as that was. “For I can not satiate him in all of the ways his little gay heart requires.” But Eddie was getting tired of the constant knocks on his apparent _gayness_ , when Richie could sleep curled around him, intoxicated or not.

“Beep beep, Richie.” He replied shortly. Richie’s arm slipped off his shoulder instantaneously. He knew it wasn’t something typically considered a serious enough offense to require a beep, which beeps were now only reserved for things that actually demanded Richie shut his mouth immediately and back the fuck off, but he was just tired of it. The air between them was automatically tense, awkward. He sighed, “look, I, uh-”

“It’s fine.” Richie said with his blank face, the face Eddie hated, that had it’s definitely not fine written all fucking over it. He walked past both of them without another word, straight into the break room.

Eddie let himself be dramatic. He put his face in his hands and groaned. He had forgotten Ben had to witness that entire thing until Ben pat his shoulder consolingly and offered “lunch?” in the exact same way Eddie had to him, not five minutes before.

He sighed. “Yeah.”

* * *

Richie stepped into the a.c. of the break room and felt his mood instantly lift. He spotted Bev sitting with Stan already at their lunch table, and felt his shoulders lose a bit of their tenseness. Their head were bowed low, like they were intimately discussing something. “Hey, pretty lady.” He kissed the side of her head, warm hand on her shoulder.

“Beautiful man.” He kissed Stan, who shoved his face away but still greeted him with a smile.

“Richard,” he nodded. Beverly didn’t really respond. He frowned at her back for a second, but slipped in next to her anyway.

The door clattered open to the break room and even though Richie knew who would be following him in, he looked up. Eddie, haloed in light around his little brown head, walked stiffly in, followed by Ben. Eddie’s hands were fidgeting with the edge of his shirt, and he offered Richie a soft smile, just a hint of his mouth moving in the corner, a symbolic white flag for whatever their tiff outside was about.

Richie smiled back, twisting his body open as an invitation to sit next to him, hoping it told him that it was already forgotten. Eddie pulled out his phone as he sat down next to Richie, frowning at it. The little lump of concern was in between his eyebrows. Richie really wanted to look over and see whatever he was probably reading from Noah, but he held his ground, bouncing his leg in his seat.

“Trouble in paradise?” He asked.

“What?” Eddie wrinkled his nose at him. “No. I’m not talking to Noah.”

“Oh.” Richie blinked. “What’s with the face, then?”

Bev clicked her tongue, throwing herself into the conversation, as if she had something to say about that entire interaction. Richie raised his eyebrows at her. Her face as pinched, more tight and stressed than he had seen since the school year. She shook her head at him. He looked to Stan to see if he would tell him anything. Stan just shook his head slowly behind her head. Richie blinked - knowing Stan would take that as the ‘alright, whatever’ it was.

“That guy is messaging me again,” Eddie bit on the pad of his thumb and Richie opened a box of noodles from the spot down by his station.

“The guy with the piercing?” Richie clarified, shoving a spoonful of noodles into his mouth.

“No the one with the,” he made a vague gesture towards his head, indicating that he was the guy with the odd, quaffed haircut. Richie hummed around his noodles, nodding.

“He still-?”

“Yeah.”

“You gonna…?”

“I don’t know.” Eddie bit his lip and locked his phone. He nodded at Ben appreciatively who slid a sandwich his way. “He seems like a nice enough guy,” he shrugged, unwrapping the sandwich. “And we have similar ideas about, like, dorm rules and stuff.”

“I still say he’s flirting with you,” Richie replied noncommittally.

Eddie used to deny it vehemently every time Richie made that assumption. Instead, he frowned considerately, and shrugged. “I dunno. He might be.” Eddie had gotten more confident since dating Noah. Richie looked down at him from the corner of his eye and smiled, genuinely.

“You haven’t picked a roommate yet?” Stan asked, assuming, correctly, that was what that entire tangent was about. Eddie nodded. “Have you talked to Bill about it?” Richie wrinkled his nose. Of course Eddie had talked to Bill about it, they were going to the same school. They decided to not dorm together for the same reasons Richie wasn’t going to dorm with Ben, it can be tough on friends.

“Yeah, we just decided that, like,” Eddie bit into his sandwich, chewed thoughtfully and swallowed before restarting, “it’d be better if we didn’t share a dorm. We’ll still see each other, but like, not _all_ the time.” He replied, looking a little absent. It was Bill’s idea. Richie knew that.

“Can’t relate,” Stan knocked his shoulder into Bev’s with a smile. They were sharing a two bedroom apartment in the Bronx in the fall, neither the least bit apprehensive.

“Same hall, though, right?” Ben asked, because that was the deal he struck with Richie. When they submitted their requests for roommates, they picked the same 1, 2, and 3 options and wrote in the request in special requests.

“Yeah.” Eddie nodded. He grabbed his phone with the hand that wasn’t full of sandwich, “this guy,” his phone didn’t immediately register his thumb. He huffed, trying again. No go. Richie dropped his fork and took Eddie’s phone from him, unlocking it quickly. 0418, April 18th, the day his dad died. Eddie nodded his acknowledgement of thanks at him, “this guy,” Richie slid the phone to Stan. “Has messaged me a couple of times from the looking for a roommate group. He’s nice, or seems so.”

“Interesting hair choices,” Bev peered at the picture, before sliding it to Ben. She cast a glance behind them towards the men’s dressing rooms. No appearance from Bill, or Mike, Richie noticed. He wondered for a moment if they were together.

“Kind of pretentious cover photo,” Ben noted, pointing out on his Facebook profile that it was some guitar with a cheese-y quote about music, which Richie had already pointed out.

“Yeah, but still nice. Gay.” Eddie shrugged, taking his phone back from Ben. He locked it again, and set it down on the table. Richie smiled at the background photo, it was Bill, annoyed and covered in frosting, on his last birthday, and Eddie grinning next to him, holding a small sign that just said ‘get rekted’ on it.

“Well, you know what I think about that,” Richie rubbed at his nose, twirling more noodles around his fork, “ _It eez alwayz bettah too avoid zee strings attachingz,"_ he replied in something that sounded vaguely like an italian lover who wine and dined women as a sport, “ _zeez gentl-y-man lookz like hez wantz zee strings_.”

“That was fucking awful, you owe me money for making me listen to that,” Stan replied flatly.

Eddie smiled to himself, biting into his sandwich.

“Nah, though, I wouldn’t live with anyone I might date, or hook up with or _whatever_ ,” Richie clarified, snagging a sip of Ben’s cola and ignoring his annoyed look.

“Yeah, but then I’d have to room with a,” Eddie leaned in goofily, conspiratorial, “ _straight_.”

“Ah, come off it, Eds,” Richie knocked his shoulder with his, “you love your straights,” with a significant glance around the table towards Stan, Ben, and then down at himself. He felt the warning to back off coming from Eddie’s curled lip. He wasn’t trying to get beeped twice in one day. It made his skin crawl. “But whatever,” he sat back in his seat, stabbing a the wet wiggly bastards his noodles were being, “I’m not your fucking,” he waved a hand in Eddie’s direction, fiddling around in his mind for the right word to say, “keeper.”

“Sounds like news to the rest of us.” Bev replied snappily. Richie dropped his fork and his eyebrows shot into his hairline. He looked to her, feeling his temper flair in the back of his mind.

“Where’s Bill, Bev?” Richie asked brazenly before thinking about it. Stan, a seat beyond Beverly blinked slowly at him before shoving his face into his hands tiredly. Richie only felt more egged on. “If we’re talking about keepers, and everything.”

“Richie…” Eddie warned slightly, grabbing his shoulder. Richie did sink back, just a little bit, but kept his eyes on Bev.

“Hey, Rich?” She kept her eyes on his, asking aggressively.

“Yeah, Bev?” He returned her tone.

“Wanna go take a smoke?”

“I’d love to.”

Richie patted Eddie’s hand placatingly as he stood, snatching up his noodles while he did so. He turned away from the table without another look, gritting his teeth when he heard Bev complain “I’ll kill him, I swear,” to Stan not quietly enough before making to follow him. He went out through the back to the small smoking area that was on the patio. It was already occupied by a few people, but Richie didn’t care. He used one hand to boost himself up to a small stone divider, sitting on top of it when he got there.

“Hey, Rich,” a guy with a ponytail Richie did not know the name of was talking to him, “I heard Mueler tried to get you out on Friday.”

Richie almost laughed at the memory, stirring noodles around again, “did he tell you I almost gave him a black eye?” He had a terrible strategy, tackling Richie like that when Richie had inches and pounds on him. It would have been his fault, Richie’s elbow just reared up before he thought about it. Bev shut the door behind her, vape already hanging out of her mouth, eyes narrowing at him. The kid laughed, starting to say something else, but Bev was already gaining on him. She had just her bag of chips in her other hand, pulling the vape out of her mouth along with a long exhale of smoke.

She tugged on his pants “get down from there.”

“A Royal Demand from the Princess?” He spoke in a haughty british accent, sitting up and bristling. “But my Lady, ‘tisn’t it Most Noble-”

“If the end of that has to do with me shoving my foot up your ass, then yes. Get the fuck down.” She replied angrily, shoving chips into her mouth.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he complained loudly, irritated, as he scooted down towards the edge of the small wall. She rounded to the other side of it. It wouldn’t stop their coworkers from hearing them, but she enjoyed the delusion of privacy, apparently. Richie tumbled down, almost losing his hand on his noodles. “What crawled up everyone’s ass and died today? You’re being a bitch, Eddie fucking beeped me-”

Beverly’s nostrils flared at his language. He recoiled a little bit, and then tried to play it off like him leaning casually against the wall. He regretted saying it, but he couldn’t just say that. She looked ready to punch him, but when she opened her mouth, it wasn’t what he thought she was going to say. “What the fuck did you do to Eddie this time?”  
“This time?” Richie fought back, “what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

She ignored him. “What did you do?” She demanded again, shoving her vape back in her mouth. She always looked sort of weird at lunch. Makeup pristine and hair curled for the heavens, but wearing sweatpants and a green tank top.

“It wasn’t a big deal, Bev.” He wanted to roll his eyes at her, shoving more noodles into his mouth.

“Then tell me about it,” she crossed her arms defensively, as she took the vape out. Pear scented smoke wafted towards his nose. He held out his hand for the vape, abandoning his fork in the noodles. She just raised her eyebrows, and held her ground.

“I was just fucking with him and Ben,” Bev looked at him like she didn’t believe him. Richie didn’t want to be talking about Eddie’s over-dramatics or overreactions. “I was just, fuckin’,” he kicked at the dirt under his foot. “I was joking around that he was like, cheating on me, or whatever. I don’t know. It was just a fucking joke, Bev.”

She paused. She was so damn soft sometimes, Richie thought, because her anger was already fading.“You gotta stop doing that, Rich,” she replied carefully after a moment.

“Doing what?” He asked hotly, shoving more noodles into his mouth. He stopped being able to actually taste them a while ago, “joking with my friends?” he added on bitterly through his noodles, with a sarcastic little sneer.

He short-wired her anger-pods again, apparently, “Bringing up Noah every forty five seconds.” She was nearing shouting, and he took a hesitant step back. “You’re the one always _bitching_ about everything changing, and you’re the one bringing him up all the goddamned time.” She told him insistently, gesticulating wildly with her vape. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were dating him.” He heard someone laugh on the other side of the wall. He didn’t know for sure if they were listening, if they were laughing at _him_ , but Richie _hated_ that feeling. He felt about half ready to go dump half a carton of pasta on their head.

When he looked back to Bev, she was watching him, face crumpled up on concern. Whatever flash of upset he felt in the pit of his stomach must have showed on his face, because she looked suddenly sympathetic.

"You've caught me," he said solemnly, already diverting the topic.

She furrowed her eyebrows.

"Please don't tell Eddie that I am secretly fucking his boyfriend, he'll be devastated." He shoved some noodles into his mouth. "It's not poor Noah's fault, who could resist _this_ ," he stuck out his leg in what was supposed to look tantalizing and also sort of looked like a gazelle with a broken leg trying to walk again, " _the boys, mast-ahh_ ," he drawled in his southern belle accent, " _you know they just have get their paws on lil' ol' me_." 

She looked spectacularly unamused. He was getting bored of this entire thing, and would rather like if they went back to laughing and talking like normal again. 

"What did you fucking want me to say?" He asked finally, getting tired of this expectant look on her face and him never fulfilling her dreams. He would say whatever it was if it meant they could stop fucking talking about feelings, he hated this bullshit.

"That you're jealous," she told him hotly, whipping around in the other direction. She kept mumbling as she did so, but not loudly enough for him to be able to hear her at all. 

“Well,” Richie furrowed his eyebrow at her. “Of course, I’m kind of jealous.” He told her plainly, as if it were obvious, because it was.

She turned around with the most dead-panned, painfully expressionless look that Richie had ever seen on her face “ex-fucking-scuse me?” she replied slowly.

Richie’s confusion only grew. “It’s natural, Bev.” He sat down on the bench across the small walking path. He tucked a foot under his other leg as he sat, keeping his eyes on Beverly. “It’s summer before college,” He fished around for the last big piece of chicken in his noodles, “we’re all going part ways, and people are starting to, like, pair off, and stuff. Of course I’m gonna be jealous of Eddie, finding someone like Noah.” He wouldn’t have minded if the summer had dropped off a magical person for him right in front of his face, either. He had thought of Eddie being there to hang out with as kind of a given for the summer. It was his own fault for underestimating the feisty little fuck, so sure, he missed having his best friend around sometimes. There was nothing weird about that, or anything that was warranting the face Bev was making. "It's like. Not a romantic thing, obviously."

Her eyes were up, beyond him, looking back and forth. She had the look on her face that she had when she felt like he was wrong about so many things she didn't know where to start. She opened her mouth and then shut it, and tried again. "Well, while you were busy being so _obviously_ not romantically jealous of Eddie and Noah-" he opened his mouth to object to her tone there, but she railed over him and kept talking, "I fucking hooked up with Bill, so thanks." She sat next to him in a slump.

Something in Richie’s stomach tightened. “Uh,” Richie blinked. “What do you mean by _hooked up_ with?” And finally, they were talking about something relevant, the thing she was actually mad about. Fucking girls man, could derail so many times to make it all seem like it was about something different than it was, like demanding they talk about Eddie for some fucking reason.

Bev fixed him with an incredulous look. “Not what you’re thinking,” was her retorted answer. Richie wanted to press further, okay, if they didn’t have sex then what _happened_?

"Ach, god-" he smacked a hand on his face, remembering that night more vividly. "You asked me to, and I fucking-"

"I know," she started, slipping her knees to her chest, tugging them to her, "like, rationally. I can reason with myself that it's not your fault. But, like, _goddammit_ Richie." She sighed heavily, going to tuck her face into her knees. Richie touched a gentle hand to her ear, reminding her to mind her makeup. She stayed still. "I know I'm not actually mad at you. Or Bill, or anyone. I'm just, like, mad it happened." She sighed again.

 _Come on, Richie,_ he thought to himself. _She's being real with you, don't get uncomfortable, don't make a fucking joke_. "Yeah," he replied softly. It was hardly Shakespeare, but it would do. "I think I know what you mean."

She hummed, sucking on her vape again. He ate more noodles. "So, is this, like, a bad time to ask if you'll tell me how big Denbrough's dick is?" 

She smacked him on the back of his head, nearly sending him face-first into a noodle facial, but she laughed when she did it. He supposed he deserved that. He was just curious. 

She grabbed his hair and tugged him to her, kissing him hard on the cheek, and tucking her nose into the black waves. “I love you,” she told him honestly, “but you make me want to rip my fucking hair out, sometimes.”

“You sound like my father,” he laughed, and when she laughed, and hugged him close to her, he knew that fight was done. For now, at least.

* * *

Bill’s mind kept wandering. She had been distant all week. It wasn’t as bad any day as it was Monday morning, when Bev didn’t say a word to him out of character, but she had hardly been warm. He freaked out to Mike during most of lunch on Monday. His advice was to talk to her, but when Bill asked if she was alright, she told him she was and then the conversation ended.

He just wanted to know where he fucked up. He drove her home on Saturday morning, tried to take her to breakfast but she turned him down. She ignored texts for the rest of the weekend. Did he just...suck at kissing? Or just suck, in general?

“Bill,” Ben greeted him gently. “You’re zoning, again.”

He and Ben were sitting at his kitchen table that Saturday afternoon. Bill had his watercolors scattered all over the table, which his father noticed with a distasteful look their way when he walked in that evening before heading to his office. He and Ben liked to work together on art pieces sometimes. Ben would jot down poetry, really good with calligraphy and careful penmanship. Bill would paint behind it. They were both perfectionists, and threw out more than they kept or gave away, but they were cherished when given.

“I’m sorry, man,” Bill rubbed at his face. “I guess I’m just tired.”

“We made progress,” Ben pointed out. They had. They had one where they liked how the wording came out, and there were rough sketches for the image behind it. The piece of a poem Ben had chosen was by a modern poet called Sarah Kay, and he had inked out in beautiful letters _‘my world was the size of a crayon box, and it took every colour to draw her’_ in the spacing of the card. Ben stood, going into the kitchen to grab himself a glass of water. “We should just call it quits for today,” Ben stretched his hands over his head. “Aren’t the guys coming from the farm soon?”

“They are except Eddie,” Bill nodded. How Richie talked Stan into going to the farm to wreak havoc on the small pond, Bill had no idea. Sometimes their strange, tight friendship with all it’s inner mechanisms still managed to mystify him. “And Bev, but we knew that.”

“She’s with Clara, right?”

“Uh,” Bill paused. He didn’t know that. She wouldn’t fucking talk to him. “I wouldn’t know.” He ran a hand over his face, pressed his thumb into his eyebrow. It was twitching slightly under his touch. “She’s been giving me the cold shoulder all week. I’m seriously starting to think I need to worry that I have some kind of mouth disease.”

Ben sat tentatively back into his seat. “Do you...want to talk about it?” He offered quietly.

Bill looked up. Ben was watching him with large, empathetic eyes and hands that were holding a glass of water slightly too tightly. They had always known this was a thing, they had just never spoken about it. And here Ben was, being so fucking nice, and offering to listen to Bill complain about Bev after having to hear about the fact they kissed.

“Oh, Ben, I’m sorr-”

“Please don’t say that, Bill, you don’t have anything to be sorry about.” Ben replied with vehement insistence. Bill still felt like he steam-rolled over Ben’s kitten collection that he wouldn’t actually be that surprised if Ben owned. “It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault, or anything.” Ben said. “Where is Eddie going to be?”

Bill blinked, surprised and yet grateful for the subject change. “He’s at his house, his Mom is at his, like, cousin’s recital thing or whatever. He wanted to have Noah over while he could.” And then Richie started planning this elaborate pond scheme as soon as he found out about that plan, but that was an exhausting thing for another day.

“Uhm,” Ben swallowed. “Right then. Is it okay if I take a walk?” He asked, already standing. By the time Bill could reply with a tentative, “uh, sure,” Ben was already half way to his door. Bill had long since learned not to question that endlessly mildly confusing, but ultimately his, ways of Ben Hanscom.

“Bill?” His dad came back around the corner. Bill started picking up the scattered paints hastily.

“Yeah, dad?”

"We need to talk." He walked into the kitchen, not looking angry, but serious. Bill sat up a little more rigidly.

"About?" He asked carefully.

"The car." 

Bill just sighed.

* * *

“You’re insane.” Eddie blinked at him, “I’m losing all faith in my taste.”

“C’mooon,” Noah drawled out. His hair was messier than Eddie had ever seen it, falling into his face a little, curls everywhere. He kissed Eddie’s stomach, and Eddie’s heart kicked a little bit. “Mariah is my _girl_.”

Eddie sat up indignantly, “okay,” he stuck out his hand empathically. Noah’s arms tightened around his middle when he laughed, and he tucked his face into Eddie’s stomach. Eddie continued his tirade as planned anyway, “you can not tell me that if we put Ariana Grande,” he pointed at one corner of his bedroom. It was almost identical to the other one, meticulously cleaned because Noah was going to be standing in it, but that’s just how he was visualizing it at the moment, “and Mariah Carey,” he pointed at another corner, by his neat brown dresser, “in this room at this exact moment, that Mariah would give a better performance. Everyone knows that’s not true.”

He could feel Noah’s grin when he kissed up his side, “you’re very passionate about this.”

For some reason, Eddie thought of Richie, and that when they had differing opinions they were practically screaming with enjoyed argument, busting out graphs and pie-charts. He shook the thought out of his head.

“You have to stand for something in this life,” he replied to Noah over-dramatically. Noah fell back from him, crashing into his once-carefully arranged pillows with a laugh. Eddie loved his bed. Sure, someone would call it manipulative, telling a mother that he needed a full size bed because he would roll out of a twin and hurt himself. He hardly cared. Eddie slithered up to Noah, resting his chin on his chest so he could blink up at him. He pushed some curls out of Noah’s face, and was rewarded with a bright smile.

“Mariah Carey has had jams out since before you were alive.” Noah told him fondly, hands wrapping around his back. “You’re supposed,” he prodded Eddie’s side, “to have respect for your elders.”

Eddie squinted at him, thinking about their last two hours together.

“I don’t think anyone’s doubting I’m respecting my elders, old man.” Eddie let out a shocked little laugh when Noah growled and flipped them over. Eddie kept giggling when Noah kissed his neck, up and under his ear. He held on to his shoulder, which was tanned and freckled and more attractive than shoulders had the right to be.

“Are you happy we…” Noah asked into his shoulder.

“Yes,” Eddie replied sternly. The last thing he wanted was Noah feeling like he took some sort of advantage of him when Eddie was the one pushing them for the last two weeks. He was fucking tired of waiting, and he was happy. Sated, a little bit twitchy in the weirdest place and was trying really hard not to think about it, but happy. “Very,” he dragged Noah’s mouth down to his, wondering if the twitchiness would be helped if they did it again. He sort of wanted to ask if Noah had been twitchy yesterday when they did it for the first time at his. But then Noah’s tongue was brushing against his and all thought of twitchiness melted away, as they kissed in Eddie’s green sheets.

There was a small cry of Eddie’s doorbell, followed by some solid knocking. Noah looked behind himself curiously, like that would tell him anything about who was at the door. Eddie grabbed his chin, and turned his face back to his.

“My mom says I’m not supposed to open the door for strangers,” he blinked with joking innocence at Noah, running a finger along his jaw bone.

“Oh, god,” Noah cringed, hiking himself up further into Eddie’s space. “I feel like I completely debauched you.

Eddie laughed. “You didn’t. Trust me.” Eddie pushed up to kiss him again, but he was distracted and so was Noah, at the repetitive knocking on his door. After another few rings of his door bell and repeated knocking, Noah pulled back a little bit.

“Eddie?”

“Yes?”

“They seem rather insistent.”

“They do, don’t they?”

“A tad.”

Eddie groaned, soreness in his lower half protesting loudly to the rest of his body as he stood. "I'll stealth my way down and see if it's someone important," if his mother sent his uncle Carl over to check on him he'd throw himself under a bus. He shucked on a pair of running shorts he hadn't worn in years, left his one white sock where it was and slid on another pink sock that he was fairly sure was Bev's and got mixed into his stuff somehow. He grabbed the white tank top on the floor and shucked it on. Glancing at himself in the mirror, he realized he still looked sort of indecent, so he threw on Noah's large black zip-up from the floor. He padded down the hall, leaning over the stairs to peek through the glass door. He, for some reason, thought about Richie again. At the word stealth he probably would have thrown himself to the floor and army-crawled his way out of Eddie's room. Eddie smiled softly at the thought, but dropped it quickly, because on the other side of the glass was Ben Hanscom.

He hopped down the steps quickly, pushing some loose hair back, out of his face. He unlocked his door as soon as he reached it.

Ben was pink-faced and upset looking, fidgeting uncomfortably on his door step. "Ben?" Eddie asked, opening his door wide. "What are you doing here?"

"Eddie, I-" Ben seemed ready to launch into a tangent, but he stopped just short of it. "Why are you wearing that?" It was, admittedly, not something Eddie would put on his body no matter how tired he was.

Eddie sighed, "I just got fucked by my boyfriend," he told him honestly, ignoring Ben's shot up eyebrows and flushing face, "but you seem distressed, so by all means, come in."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rough rough week y'all. i'm still feeling down on myself and this but i really wanted to try and post something as a bit of a morale boost. thanks for reading and if u leave comments thank u so much they mean the world to me. you can also catch me on my tumblr tossertozier. later y'all.


	14. Chapter 14

Beverly woke up sighing, she was pretty sure. She stared at the blinds of her window, scattering streaks of light all over the light grey walls. She shut off her alarm, wincing at the small patch of breakouts on her chin when she ran her hand over her face. She didn’t think about anything in particular but being tired, staring at her window. Her blinds were yellowing, and she had to dust the assorted knick knacks on her window sill.

She texted Mike an excuse, a not coming to work excuse. He tried to call but she declined it. She didn’t want to talk about her feelings, she wanted to lay there. He sent her back a frown, but and acceptance.

She wasn’t actually tired, but she went back to sleep.

When she woke up, it was just past 11 a.m. She was vaguely sweaty and disoriented. Sleeping in hoodies never ended the way she wanted it to. She almost squinted with disbelief at her alarm clock that she hadn’t set in years because of cellphones. She stood up, stretching her arms over her head, padding out into the living room in her pajama shorts and hoodie.

When she sat on the couch, she wrapped herself in a blanket, thinking of breakfast. For a moment. She thought of breakfast for a moment, but made no moves towards getting any. She thought about turning on the t.v., but didn’t.

After a while, Clara, ever the late sleeper, stepped out of her own bedroom, wearing boxer shorts and a tank top. “You’re...still here?” Clara rubbed at the sleep in her eyes, padding into the kitchen, flipping the kettle on.

“I am.” Bev replied, shuffling more under the blanket.

“Are you not feeling well?” Clara asked as if she knew she felt fine, but needed that clarified first.

“I,” Bev swallowed, curling tighter into herself. “I think I’m fine.” She replied crisply. Clara gave her a look as if she frankly didn't believe her. That was fine. Bev wasn't sure if she believed herself. Clara didn't say anything as she busied herself making a cup of tea. Clara drank more tea than anyone Bev knew, year round, even in summer. Good for her vocal chords or something like that, for when she was yelling at her job. 

She sat down across from Bev, tucking her feet up under her before saying "spill."

Bev thought back to their rough beginning. When most conversations ended in slammed doors and Bev could evade any topic. When she didn't tell Clara Richie or Bill's name for the first three weeks of knowing them, desperate to have her own things, her own space that was hers, again. She thought about sobbing into her pillow when it all built up, throwing cups at doors and isolating herself. Blaming herself.

She opened her mouth, and the events of the last three weeks spilled out. 

* * *

 Bill was frowning by the time he got off the stage, which was only a short walk. Richie was already waiting for him at the actor’s door. He knew he looked stressed, face feeling pinched tightly and sour. Richie raised his eyebrows at him, mouth opening to ask why, and then a princess followed him out. A princess with sweeping golden hair and smaller hips than their girl. Richie shut his mouth. He knew Bill didn’t want to talk about it. “Hey, Emily,” he smiled at her politely as she passed.

“Hey, Richie,” Emily stopped. She blinked with surprise, fair enough, because he didn’t have a reason to be back there. RIchie just didn’t have any place to be in particular in between shows. He was allowed to wander, harass Faire guests and cause general chaos. Bill had been seethingly jealous last summer, but he knew it suited Richie in a way it would never suit Bill. Richie also had a modest twitter and youtube following, like that hadn’t been hell on his ego when it happened. Emily brushed her hair over her shoulder, chin tilted up. Bill raised his eyebrows. “Are you going to be at Mike’s this weekend?” She smiled sweetly. It wasn’t her smile. Bill had seen her smile. Her smile was wide and loud, stretching her features, and genuinely looked much better on her than what was on her face currently.

Bill looked to Richie, wondering if he had noticed the flirtation. Hopefully, he hadn’t noticed Bill’s surprised reaction to it.

When you grew up with someone, Bill thought, somehow they stay the same in your mind. He saw Richie so much that he never noticed the changes. The big hands, the scruff on his jaw that was less patchy and better looking than anything Bill could grow, the hair that stopped looking so much like a crow’s nest and looked more tousseled.

Somehow, Richie in Bill’s mind was just always the thirteen year old with braces that broke a water balloon full of gatorade intended for a prank all over his own shirt, and that’s sort of the way he would stay.

Richie, however, did not notice, or if he did, did not seem terribly interested. “I, like,” he squinted, looking a bit insulted, “planned that party.”

“Oh,” Emily blinked. Bill sent Richie a ‘what the fuck, man’ look that Richie did not visually respond to. “See you there?”

“Probably.”

Emily passed by, brushing his arm as she did. They looked at each other, realizing they had a plethora of vaguely feelings-y things to talk about. After one breath, it was very apparent they’d be talking about none of them. Richie got a text, and his eyebrows crumpled at it as he clicked through the thread. Bill realized his phone was buzzing in his pocket. “Ben’s out,” he told Bill. Bill raised his eyebrows, Ben made it pretty damn far last year. Ben was more astutely clever than he let on.

Assassins was aptly named, because the game operated a lot like killing someone. If you were a big, burly guy, yeah. You’d probably be able to get away with just tackling them. But that required being fast enough to catch someone constantly on edge, and not alarming the people around them enough to interfere. Bill had been told, and he believed it, that no one had ever won the game by physical force.

Richie frowned at the thread, “looks like the old men have it out today. Katie texted me she just got out, too.” He added plainly. He looked u and caught Bill’s eye. They moved in the same millisecond: flipping so they were back to back, pressed against each other and wary. He twisted his head to the right, it was always the right. “S-stay on your guard, old chap.”

“Meet me he-ya” he slipped into his faire voice easily, Richie lived for these sort of dramatics, “I’ll escort you,” his faire voice twisted into something more British, more posh, “to lunch, m’lord.”

Bill nodded, even though Richie couldn’t see him, “stay safe.”

* * *

 They were scattered all over the attic. Ben was sitting in the bean bag chair. Richie was laying on the floor on his stomach on the other side. Mike was lounging back on the pull-out, Eddie tucked under his arm, pretending like he wasn’t already falling asleep. Bev was laying on the bottom half of the pullout, curled into a tight ball. Bill was sitting on the floor on the other side, fiddling with his phone, doing nothing of general importance and pretending like he wasn’t watching Bev. Stan sat on the pile of cushions collected from the couch on his other side.

They had the TV streaming Netflix, playing an episode of Parks and Recreation they had all seen a thousand times, but somehow could enjoy anyway.

“Sometimes when we disagree you’re so passionate, I feel like I’m arguing with the sun!”

“What!? That is totally crazy I am sUPER CHILL ALL OF THE TIME!!!” Ben and Leslie fought on the screen.

Richie made a choked noise of amusement, “me with Eddie.” He joked to the room. He was wearing a flannel shirt, even though it was July. Mike squinted at it and...it he was pretty sure it was Bill’s shirt. Of course it was.

“What?” Eddie sat up, already ready to argue, “I AM NOT THAT- oh.” He looked down at Richie, and they both split into laughs. So did Stan on the other side of the couch.

Bev yawned “I think Eddie is Anne.” Mike squinted down at her face, trying to figure out her reasoning. He didn’t necessarily understand why, but he might see it, too.

“Well,” Mike sat up, too. “Richie is definitely Andy.” He smiled down at Richie. Richie looked like he was considering it.

“I think Eddie could be Leslie.” Bill countered thoughtfully. Passionate, loud, spitfucks that made other people wake up and do their jobs? Mike might be able to see it.

“I don’t think I’m Andy.” Richie replied with a crumpled brow. He turned over, laying out and stretching out his arms. “I’m not that big of an idiot.” Mike laughed a little bit, because no, he wasn’t, but he tried pretty damn hard to convince people otherwise. He caught Ben’s eye, who smiled at him, shaking his head.

“Richie is Tom.” Stan said matter of factly.

“I don’t know,” Eddie shrugged, “I think I could be Leslie. I do consume ungodly amounts of waffles if left unsupervised.” He reasoned lightly. Mike laughed loudly, and ruffled Eddie’s hair. Had it been anyone else, he reasoned, Eddie would have gotten mad. Eddie just grinned up at him.

“I don’t think I’m Tom,” Richie countered, breaking off Mike’s laughter. He kept his voice light and somehow it was still jagged at the ends.

“Who are you, then, Rich?” Ben reached down and put a hand on his tummy.

“Ben, obviously.” Everyone but Bill himself, Richie and Bev bust out laughing. It was a genuinely laughable concept. Mike looked to Bill, wondering why the silence. Bill cringed, and looked to Bev. She made a similar face back at him. Mike wondered if those two were talking regularly again. He looked away.

“The soft-spoken serious nerd with a love for work and the rules?!” Mike choked out on his laugh. Eddie shook his head with disbelief.

“Ben is fun,” Richie reasoned.

“You made fun of us going to Comic Con,” Eddie looked to Mike, and then Ben, the trio who went recently, “for _three days_ , Rich.”

“Mike is _definitely_ Ben,” Ben confirmed, nodding with agreement at Eddie. He wrinkled his nose. “That sounded weird to say.”

Mike looked back in the other direction. Stan was making eye contact with Bill and rolling his eyes. Bill shook his head. Stan went to change the subject “if Mike is Ben, Bill is definitely Chris.”

“Traeger?” Bill questioned,  wrinkling his nose, “I hate unnecessary exercise.”

“Bill, you biked to high school every day for no reason. You had multiple car options, and you still biked to high school.” Stan explained. Mike frowned, but Bill did. Bill just liked his bike, that was all.

“Well…” he started to argue, but Richie sat up, scooting to sit next to the t.v. so he could see the rest of the room.

“I haven’t seen Bill eat a vegetable in three years.” Richie backed him up. Mike squinted at the wall, genuinely trying to remember if he had seen Bill eat one this week, even.

“It’s more a dynamic thing,” Bev sat up, agreeing with Stan, nodding at him. “Bill leads,” she said plainly, as if it were a stated fact. Bill was waiting for a dispute. It wasn’t a thing they talked about. No one said anything. Eddie even nodded thoughtfully, “until there’s something hard to tell us. Then he makes Mike do it.” They laughed loudly, even Bill chuckled.

“Stan is April,” Bill decided quickly, looking to Stan.

Stan frowned but he nodded, shuffling back on the cushions. Bill laid down so his head was propped up on them. Stan ran a few fingers through his hair.

“If I’m April, Pat is Andy.” He added thoughtfully, and then a soft grin. Bill squinted up at him.

“What is a Pat?” Bill asked.

“Pat?” Richie questioned from the corner. “Isn’t that the coworker you hated?”

“I don’t think he’s hating anymore,” Mike corrected with a sly grin. Stan shot him a glower. Mike grinned harder. He had heard precious little about the mysterious Pat, but Stan spoke much more fondly of their interactions than he had in the past.

“Mind your businesses.” He told them curtly, shutting off the conversation. Bill laughed. Stan was always a private guy with stuff like that.

“You should invite Pat this weekend, Stan.” Mike added warmly, in a way he would talk about any new friend.

Once a year in July, Mike’s grandparents left the farm for a conference in the city. Mike had only gone once and wanted to shove his face into the nearest blender because a man can only listen to old people talk about seeds for so long. Something something agriculture, whatever. Anyway, he had taken the opportunity their first summer together to host the first ever loser’s sleepover. The first year, it had just been the seven of them. Last year, word spread a little bit, and Mike had somehow managed to throw his first party. It wasn’t anything wild, maybe forty people, and most of them nerds from the Renaissance Faire, but still. A party.

Stan looked up at him and nodded, like he intended to. Mike smiled down at him.

“Are we gonna use the barn this year, Mikey?” Richie asked, sliding his back down the wall and crossing his arms. “Do I need ta’ pull on tha’ good ol’ hay shuckin’ boots?” He spoke in a southern accent that was...actually not as bad as it used to be.

“Okay, well, first of all: shucking hay is literally not a thing,” Mike began to correct, but Bill stood and stretched, then spoke too.

“I think we should.” He rolled his shoulders back, hunching a little bit out of necessity in the attic. “Any more people than we had last year in your house and I would be very nervous.” He spoke. Mike met his eye and nodded. Bill was probably right. He was doubtful they’d have any more people, but couldn’t hurt to be prepared. “I’m antsy. Let’s do something.”

Everyone groaned. Bill Denbrough Let’s Do Somethings ended them in dumps and forests and once, a sewer.

“We are doing something,” Ben gestured to the screen. Parks and Rec continued to play on it.

“You know, I heard that they’re gonna start tearing down the paper mill,” Bill countered, speaking to Ben as if that had anything to do with what Ben just said.

“Tearing down paper mills doesn’t justify breaking into abandoned paper mills.” Stan replied haughtily. “You are not going to find secret government information or details of a corporate scandal in the paper mill. Just broken glass and old condoms.” He rolled further into the cushions. Stan Uris was not going anywhere, Mike realized.

“Comfortable there?” Bill asked with a flat expression.

“Very.” Stan replied, face down in the cushions.

“Is ya’ Stanny?” Richie stood, well, as much as Richie could stand in the attic. Mike only realized then how odd it was for him to be sitting in that corner in the first place. Richie normally got twitchy when he wasn’t touching one of them, Bev or Eddie most of the time, in some sort of way. He was an outright affectionate guy. 

“Why do I hear Richie’s obnoxious plate feet coming towards me?” Stan asked flatly, without lifting his head.

“Because Richie’s coming towards you,” Ben answered helpfully.

“Ta’, mate.” Richie spoke in his posh British accent. Mike blinked. “Cheers for that,” to him, it was nearly indiscernible from the accents he heard on Sherlock. “Put it in the papers, shall we?” He collapsed on to Stan, who instantly trying to shove him off. “Come on, give us a cuddle, yeah?”

Bev and Eddie were looking at each other knowingly. Mike wondered why Richie wasn’t draped all over them in the first place.

“Wow, Rich, I knew we got dark sometimes but I didn’t know you had an active death wish.” Bill commented lightly.

“Bill,” Richie had pinned Stan under him, arms wrapped around him tightly, with his chin propped up on his shoulder. “Baby. We’ve talked about this. It doesn’t matter who I’m with. I come home to you every night.”

Stan elbowed Richie in the gut, and knocked the wind straight out of him. 

* * *

 A strong, large hand pushed Eddie’s into the mattress above his head. He rolled his neck back, trying to keep his breath from panting outright. Teeth grazed against a sensitive spot on his neck and he nearly keened at the sensation. “Oh, fuck,” his head fell back into his pillow. His tongue slipped out, hot and slick, over the bite, and then a gentle kiss.

“Yeah, Eds?” He blew on the mark.

Eddie failed to reply verbally, just making a soft, humming, mm-hmm sound as he slipped his fingers into the black waves that were fanning over his shoulder, the edge of his jaw. “You like that?” He muttered into his skin, almost annoyingly cocky.

“Fuck, please, Rich-”

Eddie jerked awake with a start. He sat up, feeling egoriously hot, thin headache fanning the back of his head, sweating in his sweater. He tugged it off quickly, wincing at it’s attempts to stick to his skin. He groaned, and ran a hand over his face. That hadn’t happened in...months. Fucking... _gross_. It was just after seven p.m. He hadn’t even meant to fall asleep, he was supposed to get picked up by Noah in just over an hour. He toyed with the button of his pants, hardily unsure if he was planning to take them off or get off.

“EDWARD,” a voice called for him and he ripped his hand away from his pants, thinking momentarily that he was being called out by God herself. “EDDIE.”

“...yeah, mom?” He called back cautiously through the door. It seemed almost like the first call was loud enough for her to be just outside it. That would have been strange upon stranger. He couldn’t remember the last time his mom called for him at that hour, let alone climbed the stairs to his room.

When she didn’t reply, he realized she was just expecting his presence. He sighed as he stood up, picking up a t-shirt off of the floor and shucking it over his head. He felt gross. He felt disgusting, and he almost tried to shake it off with the shrug of his shoulders. He dug some crust out of his eye. “ _Hey, body_ ?” He told himself, “ _yeah, we’re done with that now, we’ve been done with that. We’re getting laid now, fucking act like it_.”

“Yeah, mom?” He repeated as he exited his room. He hopped down the steps quickly. She was sitting, thoroughly awake, at their dining room table. He hadn’t seen her in there in a while. Propped up next to her was her cane, bags from KFC were in front of her. His face crumpled with confusion and surprise. Most days, his mom was on the couch when he got home from the Faire. He must’ve forgot to check that day. Sometimes she had fallen asleep, but he’d always come downstairs around 7:30. He’d pop in a microwave meal for her. Sometimes two. She’d normally be in bed by eight. He’d sneak back out by eight thirty. Her days seemingly just got shorter.

“I was worried you went out without asking me,” she told him curtly, brushing back wispy brown hair from her face.

“Me, mom?” He asked her, in a way that would make his friends cry with laughter but she’d take as genuine. He crossed to their counter, covered in weird chachkis she kept buying at thrift stores with his aunt Vera. There was a plain tortoise shell headband on the counter. He handed it to her. She didn’t thank him, but pushed her hair back with it. “Did you go out today?” He asked, eying the food, even though it was obvious she had. His mother had something called peripheral arterial disease, or PAD. It heavily minimized her mobility. It was why Eddie drove her to her appointments, why he bought groceries from heavily detailed lists and went to the pharmacy as least once a day. He picked up the bags, setting them on the counter. He grabbed the sanitation wipes from the lower cabinet, wiping down her spot in front of her on the table.

“Vera and I went to Steinmart,” she said, gesturing to reference a few shopping bags sitting by several other bags of clutter near the doorway. Eddie winced where she couldn’t see it. “Have you washed your hands, Eddie?”

“Sorry, mommy.” He threw out the paper towel, making a mental note to take out the trash when Noah came to pick him up. He blinked, and turned to look at his mother, who looked still very dressed. She had her shoes, white with velcro, still on. Her legs were purpled and swollen, but visible after khaki shorts, a sign she had been outside. It was summer. He might have to tell Noah that he’d have to pick him up later than planned.

“You really should be washing your hands every half hour, Eddie.” She told him haughtily. “That’s all it takes for infection to set in.”

Their sink was cluttered with various antibacterial soaps. He picked one and didn’t respond.

“Use a paper towel to turn the tap off,” she reminded him, like she didn’t say these things every day. He got out paper plates for them to eat off of. She insisted regular plates were “unclean.” It was also the reason she preferred individual microwave meals. All the food is covered in plastic before it’s unwrapped. Before her mobility got so bad, she used to bring home fast-food very often, multiple times a week. Something about working with raw meat terrified her, or at least, Eddie thought so. He set out the plates, opened bags of food and set them out in front of her. “How was your day at work, honey?”

Eddie squinted at the back of her head, momentarily remembering what he told her his job was. Jewelry, right. His first year at the Faire, he told her he was working at the jewelry shop. He wasn’t going to tell her he was working at the fast and filthy lemonade stand with Mike Hanlon. That was, actually, their first formal introduction to a one Miss Beverly Marsh. She actually did work at the jewelry shop, and wanted to know why Eddie kept running in to take photos of himself in there with Bill. _Bill and Bev_ , Eddie shuddered, that summer was a disaster from their very first day onward. “It was good. We got in some very pretty pretty new pendants.”

“That’s nice. I’ll need you to drive me to Roberta’s after dinner.” Eddie blinked at the back of her head. He pulled out his cell-phone. He thought he could make it back to the house after dropping his mom off at his aunt’s before Noah got there, but he wasn’t sure. “She’s having a party to celebrate the end of Lucy's music program, but it’s going to be a disaster without my help.” Eddie was sure his Aunt Roberta would likely beg to differ, but he didn’t say anything as he set down the tubs of food in front of them.

He made it with plenty of time, and somehow wished he hadn’t.

He knew what he was getting into that night. Noah warned him it was a reception of some sort for a thing his dad was doing, and he didn’t want to go by himself. But Eddie underestimated how stuff an event could be. He felt so out of place in the banquet hall of a country club, even with Noah by his side. The champagne in his hand warmed under his touch he was holding it so long while Noah politely introduced him to people he barely knew himself.

The worst part of it was his touch. Noah stayed infuriatingly distant. It made Eddie’s eye twitch, the occasional brush on his back or the nimble sweep of fingers over his hand. He just wanted to hold Noah’s hand. He thought about Richie, and how he draped himself all over Eddie constantly. He shook him off most of the time. But he wanted it, in some way. Touched. Comforted. Something like that.

His hands twitched towards Noah. Noah shifted his weigh in the opposite direction.

Eddie just didn’t belong there. He didn’t belong with with any of the adults, he felt like a child for the first time in months. The country club they were standing in was a close contender for where their senior prom nearly was, just a few short months ago. Eddie excused himself quietly, stepping out on to the patio. It was empty, and somehow still stuffy, with pillows on benches, stone partitions over looking seas of green golf fields, not that he could see them after dark.

He heard the door open and then shut. He knew Noah was just a few feet behind him. He set his glass down on the stone and turned to him. Noah hadn’t said anything yet, but Eddie fell into his arms anyway, clinging onto his shirt.

“Whoa, whoa-” Noah laughed lightly, patting Eddie’s back with a free hand and setting down his glass. “Is everything-” Eddie realized, quickly, that Noah was subtly trying to pull him off. Eddie snapped away from him, finding himself viciously, unreasonably, angry. Noah stood back, obviously surprised. Watching him carefully.

“You’re upset,” Noah said quietly, hands shoved into his pockets.

"You're observant." Eddie sassed back. He heard Noah laugh gently, and it melted some of his tension a little bit. He looked up at him. He was watching Eddie with pursed lips, debating his next move. Like he was a firework, or dangerous or...a child. Eddie felt like a fucking child and he was... _behaving_ like one. Noah sat down on one of the pristine stone benches. 

"Are you going to tell me why?" _NO, NOAH, BECAUSE I DON'T REALLY FUCKING KNOW_ , he thought angrily. 

"I, personally," he replied, hoping the sass was a little less cutting than it had been. "Was content to just sit out here and stare at the sky all night."

Noah shrugged, patting the bench next to him. "Okay." He smiled at Eddie, "then let's at least count the stars, yeah?"

Eddie wrinkled his nose. "That was cheesey." He loved it, and he sat next to Noah, curling into his touch.

Noah sat back a little bit from Eddie, adjusting their pose. Eddie realized that the walls to the country club were essentially glass, and they were still fully visible, but he groaned. Noah laughed again, sitting up enough to turn and look at him, "what?"

Eddie sprung for honesty and hoped it didn't land him in mud. “Sometimes, you treat me like a fucking business associate.” He told him curtly. Noah opened his mouth, but Eddie kept talking, "In public." He clarified. "And don't just tell me it's a thing for tonight," he said with a significant nod to the inside, "because it's all the time."

Noah sat back with a pensieve look on his face. If he were Richie he already would have started defending himself. Noah considered what he had to say. "I never," he said after a long stretch of time, that had Eddie considering counting stars seriously, "want to put you in a potentially dangerous situation."

Eddie rolled his eyes. "It's a new world out here," he told him seriously, dropping his hand on his forearm. "We don't live in the deep south. People care less." He told him earnestly. "I heard," he muttered in a silly voice, like he was letting him in on a secret "that the gays might be marrying, now." He smiled at the end of it, it feeling relieving, relaxing to his tight facial muscles. Noah didn't share it, his mouth pressed together tightly. His eyes looked back to Eddie's. 

“How old were you on marriage equality day?" He asked after a moment. "When it became legal in Maine?"

Eddie felt a corner of his eye twitch up as he thought about it, "uh. I dunno. What year was it?"

"2012."

“I was, like. 13.”

Noah took a moment to think about that. Or whatever else he was thinking about. For all Eddie knew, it could be grocercies or something. Although people seldom looked as solemn as Noah did over vegetables. Except maybe Stan. Stan might take grocery shopping that seriously, Eddie could see that happening. “I was 18.” He said after a moment. Eddie was ready to make the argument he made to Stan himself, that they weren't going backwards in time. He felt defensive already, but Noah was headed in a different direction. It looked like he was. He was sitting forward, putting an arm on one of his legs, not touching Eddie. But still...open. Inviting Eddie into his space, like he was saying something important. "November 6th, 2012." He told him, nodding to himself. "I went to homecoming that year. I didn't have a date, no. I took a good friend. And I was sleeping with this guy," he made a face, nose twitched up, "he wasn't that hot or popular trope. He was just. Gay, I think. He liked me. I think, I'm not sure. We were having sex, though. And I thought, when we ditched the dance half way through and had bad sex in his car, I thought that, God. Things were looking up for people like us. We were gonna take over the world." Eddie inhaled, and hoped it wasn't audible. Was it...wrong? To think that way? "And then, it was November. Gay marriage was legal, and I was suddenly equal to the rest of Maine society. They couldn't hate me anymore, right?" He said with a smile. It was soft and sad. "And then it's the end of school, and I'm still sleeping with him. And I say, fuck it, let's do it, right? Who cares what they all think, you know? Let's go to prom together." He squints ahead of them, like the memory is misted in front of them, hazy and distant. But real. All too real. "He starts to ignore me. He doesn't respond to anything. "And then, one day, I miraculously get the shit beat out of me by a group of guys, and there's a big fight about me being allowed in locker rooms, and words generally out I'm a..." he looked down at Eddie, like he's reconsidering his word choice. "Yeah." He smiled down at him, dimple evident in the corner of his cheek. He opened his arm, not because he wanted to be hugged, because he knew Eddie needed to be hugging him. Eddie settled in beside him. "The worst part is, I barely knew the guys who bashed my face in. Like. If you want my face beat in, do it yourself, coward. And I don't go to prom." He finished with a sad rubbing circle on Eddie's arm.

"If it makes you feel any better," Eddie began lightly, unsure where to steer the conversation from there, "prom is not all it's cracked up to be."

"You went?" Noah sounded surprised.

"With friends." Eddie nodded.

"Fun?"

He thought back to his own prom story. Not at all like Noah's. But still isolating, standing in a corner during a slower song, sitting with Mike because his friends seemed to have made an annoying pact to not leave him alone. It didn't make him feel any less alone, staring out at swaying couples. The lead up was worse. He said to Richie, after weeks of Richie stewing over dates and being anxious and generally annoying about it, he just suggested that the losers go together. Not as dates, none of them paired up. Just as a big group of friends. He didn't even suggest that he and Richie even...well.

Richie showed up to their lunch table the next day with a date.

"No."

Noah laughed, and tilted his head on to Eddie's. Eddie nearly sighed in relief, or maybe he did, just a small one. Noah hugged him a little closer. "I always want you to be safe," he admitted in a soft voice.

Eddie let it be quiet for a moment, so Noah knew he was heard. So Noah knew he was understood, even. He countered, ever so gently, after just counting a few stars, by saying "I can't live life afraid."

Eddie _really_ couldn't. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is too long and im trash anyway


	15. Chapter 15

“Hi there, asshole. You’ve reached the mailbox of Richie If-You-Don’t-Know, I-Don’t-Want-You-To. Since you’ve decided to be the biggest douche face on the planet and attempted to call me, like it’s 1994 or something, I’m going to waste your time as you attempt to waste mine. This will be the longest voicemail box recording you’ve ever heard. I want you to take this time to consider your actions, here. Is this that fucking important? Will I care? Will I respond? Will I call back? The answer is almost definitely no because if you’re one of the literal 10 people on this planet that I would call back, you’d know better than to leave me a voicemail. You’re still fucking here?” Bev smiles when she hangs up the phone. It goes on for about another ten seconds, but she’s apparently done with that now.

“That thing,” Stan said, referencing the call, “is a menace to humanity.” It was a complete fucking nightmare to wait through it all. Stan had never made it. He tried to get Richie to change it so many times, and had never succeeded.

“Don’t talk about my son like that,” Mike chastised him looping through a ring of keys. Stan tried to kick him while remaining seated. Mike dodged him. They were standing under the stage in the late afternoon, after Stan had been let out of counting. They were given a tip by a decently credible source, Bev’s boss Jo, that there was another set of golf clubs in storage. The ones they had been playing Whaleburga with for three years running were a little beat up.

They weren’t technically supposed to be down there, but Bev was on break in between shows, Stan was done with his work for that day, and Mike had a free couple of minutes. They hadn’t turned on the lights of the basement, though. Bev held up a flashlight so Mike could see his keys.

A door creaked open up the steps. Bev clicked off the light.

“STAN?!” Someone shouted. Stan whipped his head in the direction of the door. There was a clatter, then a crash.

“Go,” he muttered to Bev and Mike, jerking his head in the direction of the door. Bev clicked the light on, and Mike was already holding the key. They let themselves into storage.

“You sur-” Bev began to ask, but he just closed the door behind them, shrouding himself in darkness again.

He turned around, feeling a creeping unsettling-ness sweep over him. “Stan is down here,” he said loudly to the general direction of the disembodied voice. “How can I help you?” He added ominously. He tried to wrack his brain for a reason he might have gone down there for work related reasons and not to steal an old set of golf clubs.

“I’m,” the voice came to him much softer, yet somehow a little strained. More feminine. He thought it might have been Dan, his boss, the first time he heard it. “Supposed to be asking you that.”

He grabbed his phone out of his pocket and flicked on the flashlight function. Patty was sitting on the steps, about half way down, hands on the rails, peering through. Her hair was a wild curled mess, flopping all over her pink cheeks.

“...Patty?!” He asked her with concern, stepping towards the steps. He grabbed the bars under her hands lightly. His head was just about at the height of her hands. “Did you fall down the stairs?”

“Uh.” She blinked awkwardly, “I mean…”

“Fuck,” the swear tasted coarse in his mouth, “are you alright?”

“I’ve had worse tumbles,” she grinned at him. His heart flooded with relief. He turned to the right, stepping over a few loose saddles on the ground, and carefully crept up the stairs, sitting just a step or two below where she sat. Her ankles crossed just above brown, short leather boots. She was wearing a brown dress littered with big flowers and a yellow sweater just over it, a big pink belt falling around her hips. She pushed some hair out of her face.

“What are you doing down here?” He asked, tempted to put his hand on her ankle for some reason he didn’t fully understand, or maybe he did but didn’t want to.

“I was going to ask you the same question!” She insisted, as if that were a giant coincidence and they both weren’t oddly sitting in a very weird place. “I finished my stuff for today and I came looking for you. I was bored.”

“Who told you I was coming down here?”

“Ben.”

Stan nodded thoughtfully. He set his phone down with the light facing up so they could still sort of see. “I was just…” he looked around, looking for an excuse that wouldn’t expose Bev and Mike. “Exploring.”

“...exploring?” Patty asked skeptically, braiding some hair back away from her face.

“This stuff,” he lied as he gestured to the room full of boxes of masks and saddles and feather boas and nonsense, “fascinates me.”

“...uh-huh.” She lied as she nodded. “It sure is...fascinating.”

“I’ll have you know that I have a deep interest in,” he waved his hand in the general direction of some costumes for horses, “horse...wear. And uh,” he scanned the room, searching for anything familiar. “Rope.”

“...rope?”

“You don’t get an Eagle Scout Award without tying a few knots,” he joked.

“You have one of those?” She asked, blinking slowly. “Aren’t those like...really hard to get?”

“It wasn’t,” he bit his lip, thinking back on it. “Okay. Yeah. It was pretty difficult. Lots of rope and…” again, complete nonsense but, “horse. Things.”

“Whatever you say,” she replied with a small little smirk, “boy scout.” Stan smiled, feeling his courage kick up a little bit at her soft eyes, eyelashes brushing together at the corners.

“Do you have plans after work?” He asked her, feeling panicked as soon as it slipped out, entirely unplanned. It was entirely un-Stan-like in nature. He should have thought it through, known exactly when he would ask, and certainly not just invite her out for a weird outing with three of his other friends and another friend’s boyfriend. But it was arguably the safest collection of losers to be introduced to, and he had already said it. She was staring at him, open mouthed. “My friends and I are going out to eat, and I was wondering if-”

She shut her mouth, and opened it as she stood, falling into the darkness a little bit as she stepped out of the light. “I can’t eat!” She squeaked, unnaturally high voice. Stan blinked. Okay, apparently he had read their interactions entirely wrong. “

“You...can’t. Eat?”

“I can’t - eat. Food, I,” she hiccuped. “I should go!” She tumbled up the steps, clattering steps as she ran. Stan looked at the space she had occupied just a moment ago. He hadn’t known exactly where he fucked that up so badly, except maybe reading it all wrong in the first place.

There was a crash at the top, where the light fell through.

“Patty?” He asked as he stood, squinting in the new light.

“I’m okay!!” She insisted, and the door shut behind her.

He stared at the vacant, dark space on the steps and figured if that’s how that went, he really shouldn’t ask her to Mike’s party on Friday. He sighed, feeling a little bit like he got punched in the chest, but no point in moping about it. He picked up his phone, and went back down the stairs. The door was old and incredibly heavy, it was still shut behind them. He cracked it open, but heard Bev’s soft voice before it fully opened.

“I don’t know, Mike.” Bev heaved a sigh. Stan stopped on the other side of the door, not wanting to interrupt the conversation, also just nosey. “Do you ever feel like you’re playing a part that you don’t even like, in a script that was written for you?”

There was a decent pause. “Elaborate.”

“I don’t think I like the me I am this summer.” Stan’s heart dampened. He loved the person Beverly was all the time. He pressed his back against the wall, wanting to sink down and sit on the floor, but it looked dirty. No thank you. “I don’t know. I’ve been. I’m stupid. Nevermind.”

“Hey,” Mike countered with his Firm Mike voice. “You are, and always have been, since the day I first met you, too hard on yourself.” Stan agreed. He fiddled with his thumbs on the other side of the door. He knew that Bev knew, in a small sort of way, that it was because of her dad. She blamed herself for things that weren’t her fault. She didn’t take enough credit for things that were her right to. She worked on it. She worked on it with Clara and her therapist, but it wasn’t fully gone.

“I just feel like I got all,” Bev reasoned, “wrapped up in this... _story_ that I don’t even. Care about, I guess. Like, not to sound cheese-y or anything, but I don’t... _need_ a boyfriend.”

“You don’t.” Mike agreed.

“I think it’s in some way this stupid part,” she sighed. “I never liked it from day one this year. Last year it was fun with the whole pirate thing. This year...it’s just _boring_ . And it’s crazy, because like, Rick corrects my posture even in the scene with the King in my dressing gown. Like… I have to look nice for the men at all times, even when in the scene I’m just with my dad in the play. It’s exhausting.”

“So, let’s get you out of there.” Mike replied eagerly, while Bev groaned. “I’m serious, Bev. If you’re not happy, I’ll get you a new place to be.” It sounded like Mike had made the offer before. Neither of them had mentioned it to Stan. He pushed open the door, abruptly announcing his presence.

“Stan!” Bev enthused. “You’re not in faire jail!”

“I don’t think we have a jail,” Mike reasoned. “It wasn’t Dan, was it?”

“No, no. It was Pat.” Stan countered, wanting to return to the previous conversation. Bev was sitting on a forgotten desk. Mike was shuffling boxes around. “We, uh. Had a weird talk.”

“Weird?”

“It’s nothing.” Stan replied. His friends knew he could be private about that kind of stuff. He just had plentiful, real time examples, even from the last week and a half, that that stuff got messy when a bunch of people got involved. “What were you guys talking about?”

“Nothing,” Bev evaded, hopping off the desk. Stan looked to Mike.

“I want to get her a new job, because she’s unhappy. She won’t listen.”

“HOLY HELL,” Bev shouted, running towards the corner, “TAKE A LOOK AT THIS, GENTS.”

In the corner, propped against the wall, were massive bows and quivers of arrows. They ranged in size, from one Bev could feasibly hold herself to one that would have to be rested on the ground.

“What are these for?” Stan asked, crossing to investigate. They were layered with a thick coating of grime and dust. Bev was reaching for one anyway. Stan grabbed her wrist, held her back. Not because he particularly cared about whatever mess she got herself into, but she was still wearing her costume.

“I have no idea,” Mike answered, looking up curiously too. “I’ve never seen them before.”

Bev, almost dramatically in the low light of the flashlight that they had propped up against a shelf, drew an arrow out of the quiver. It was intricately carved and wooden, with a silver tip at the end. She pressed it into her finger, investigating it’s sharpness.

She looked up with almost a devilish look in her eye, eying a corner of the room, “to new storylines,” she spoke in her airy Faire accent, vaguely British, vaguely Scottish. She drew her arm back and heaved the arrow at the empty wooden wall, “mates.”

It stuck in, making an odd panging sound where it landed, and stuck out from the wall.

* * *

 

No better Tuesday activity than standing on a roof, hitting a golf ball towards a statue of a witch, Ben figured. His breath was heaving after the sixth round, standing in a circle by Walburga, Mike tallying points. Mike was leading, followed by Stan, looking a little terse about being sweaty in his nice button down shirt.

“It’s too hot out,” Stan complained, delicately pulling the shirt away from his skin. “If I have sweat stains, don’t let Noah judge me.” Stan told Eddie solemnly. Eddie laughed.

Richie looked around them with overt concern, “he’s not here, is he?” Referring to Noah, Ben was sure. He, Stan, Mike and Eddie were going out to an early dinner with Noah after work. Eddie was just apprehensive about Noah’s ability to fit in at the party at Mike’s on Friday. Stan was the one who suggested starting out with a smaller group of them.

“He’s in the parking lot,” Eddie replied, raising an eyebrow. Bill stepped into the fountain to get the last ball.

“Did you tell him about the game?” Richie’s brow crumpled, “you do know how many rules we’re breaking here, right? If anything happens betwee-”

“Jesus, fucking relax, Rich.” Eddie stepped back, twirling his golf club around his hand. “I haven’t told him jack-shit. I think he knows anyway, though. And I don’t think he cares.” Bev cleared her throat, and Ben looked to her. She was pink-faced but amused with a shirt that easily could have been from the 70’s on, with big flowers all over it.

Bev stuck her whistle in her mouth, ending the conversation and beginning a new round.

Ben stopped mid-run just long enough to see Stan grab Richie by the collar and mutter, “you’re the one who told Noah, dipshit.”

Richie whacked his ball so hard that it soared far beyond the statue, past where it was reasonable to even go get it.

Ben had forgotten Eddie still didn’t know Richie talked to Noah about going out with Eddie before asking Eddie out. Sitting at a table with Noah, the move seemed more and more in character. He was calculated and articulate, but with an earnest attempt to remain warm as he did so. At first, Ben thought he could see the gears turning in his mind over what to say. Ben could relate. His first summer of the Faire, his first summer having honest to god friends, he did it all the time.

“And then the kid was crying, and covered in custard, so long story short, none of us are welcome back to Costco anymore,” Stan finished the story with a laugh of his own, rare and sweet. Ben laughed, even though he was present for the event, and heard Stan tell the story a ridiculous number of times. It was funny every time he told it.

“Was that a story about...Beverly?” Noah grinned as he guessed. He had one arm looped over the back of Eddie’s chair. It was both intimate, yet not inherently romantic. Eddie tried to shift closer, but Noah didn’t seem to notice.

“Bill. Close though,” Stan nodded. “I would have thought you’d guess Richie.” Stan said with a significant look to Mike. Bill and Richie did seem to get into the most… fantastical antics, in a way.

“Oh, I haven’t heard that name in a while.” Noah said with an unchanging tone, still jovial and light. Mike furrowed his eyebrows, and looked to Eddie, “Eddie used to tell me so many stories, about everyone, but especially him. But he,” he tapped his fingers on Eddie’s shoulder in a cute little pattern, “hasn’t told me anything else, not recently. Richie’s almost like a mystery, now.” Noah laughed again, not picking up on the awkward energy. Eddie kept his eyes on his silverware. Ben wasn’t sure if he were Eddie that he’d want to tell Noah anything about Richie, either. Not with the way he had been acting recently.

Stan cleared his throat “he’s a mystery to us all, you’re better for it, trust me.” He covered quickly, “but have you guys seen those dig-outs along the route to the Faire from 81?”  
“Yeah!” Mike insisted, “what the fuck are they building, tunnels for fucking...bears? Those digs are enormous!”

* * *

 Bev practically wanted to collapse in relief when Mary released her from her gown that Friday afternoon. Emily would be taking over for her on Monday. She’d only have a few more hours of  rigid spines and indentations on her skin. She shimmied into her hoodie, and stepped out of the dressing room, almost colliding with Bill.

“Oh, god.” He said as she squeaked out a “sorry!”

They stared at each other for a half a second. They still hadn’t talked about it. They had barely talked at all. Bev didn’t particularly want to, now even. She turned, and told him over his shoulder, “come on, Denner. Lunch break’s only so long.”

“I don’t know, Eddie.” Ben was telling him as she and Bill approached the table. He was sitting next to Eddie, who had Stan on his other side, then Richie. Mike was sitting next to Ben, looking less interested in the conversation than he was in his sandwich. Bev sat down next to him, smacking a kiss on his cheek as she went. He looked up at her, warm and soft, as she sat. “I don’t think it was that noticeable.”

Bev raised her eyebrows at Richie, asking what was going on. He shrugged, not in the passive aggressive way he had lately, but in the way that told her he actually had no better clue what was going on than she did.

“I just,” Eddie looked up, smiling tightly with a quick nod to Bev, and Bill who sat on her other side. “Urgh.” Eddie really could make the most intriguing noises of their friend group. “Like. That’s the whole point of getting a boyfriend, right? So you can hold his stupid hand and stuff?”

Stan squinted ahead of them, “I’d wager that that’s not the...whole point of getting a boyfriend.” He reasoned. Which was foolish. It was a mistake Stan made as long as Bev had known him, trying to use logic with an irritated Eddie Kaspbrak. Bev was beginning to think he’d never learn.

“What’s wrong, Eddie?” She asked sympathetically, knowing he just needed to be validated in how he felt. These boys were going to be nightmares of husbands, she prayed for their future partners.

“Noah isn’t big on PDA,” Mike replied through his sandwich. He bit off another piece. Stan winced. “And it annoys Eddie.”

Eddie stabbed at his salad. “I feel like his business partner,” he complained. “He’s mostly just worried about homophobes. But we don’t live in, like, Georgia. It’s not that big of a deal.” He rolled his eyes, shoving a fork-full of lettuce into his mouth.

“I don’t know,” Richie butt in, unsurprisingly. “I get what he means.” He shrugged, cutting through his own shepherd’s pie.

Eddie’s head snapped up, looking irritated that Richie of all people was taking Noah’s side. “I highly doubt we’re gonna get bashed because he held my hand in a sandwich shop, Rich,” Eddie replied, sounding more bratty than he probably intended on.

Richie fixed him with a hard look, “he’s just trying to keep you safe, Eds.”

“Don’t _fucking_ call me that.”

Bill cleared his throat next to Bev and she could have sang him a song praise. “I think this little kid in the audience today,” he began a thorough subject change. Eddie still looked pissed, but he stabbed at his salad again, and so the subject was dropped. “Was making an actual attempt at getting on s-stage. Was just too t-tiny.”

Richie laughed, looking like he was ready to make a joke at Eddie’s expense, judging by his eyes on the guy. Bill silenced him with a sharp look. No more fights, it said, not today.

“Did you guys get the barn cleared out?” Bev shifted forward, asking Mike. He, Richie, Bill and Ben spent the better half of the last two days on it.

“As good as it needs to be,” Mike shrugged. Stan shivered. Bev was sure he was planning on staying very much inside of Mike’s house that night.

“Carpool, guys?” Ben asked, sitting forward. “I was gonna go over with Mike in the truck after work, he picked me up today.”

Bev nodded, “I’ll come straight after, too. I brought clothes. It’s fine.”

“I suppose,” Stan looked around with a significant nod, “that that means I’ll end up hauling the three of you there, right?”

“Unless Billy’s car wants to make it’s breath-taking debut,” Richie added on, slapping on what Bev called his Seedy Game-Show Host voice.

“It can’t,” Bill replied forlornly. Bev looked up at his face. He looked bitter, grabbing his sandwich sadly.

“What do you mean, Bill?” Eddie sat forward.

“Duh-Dad’s friend offered to buy it for a little m-more than I paid for it three years ago. He’s gonna pick it up at t-the end of the summer for his s-son. It’s probably worth more than that with all the work I-”

Mike coughed into his hand. “All the work M-Mike,” Bill corrected with a meek smile in his direction “put int-to it. But whatever. It’s not like it-t runs or anything.”

Eddie’s eyebrows crumbled. He probably knew better than anyone that Bill loved that car, even though it never ran. “That still sucks though.”

Bill shrugged, “wuh-what can you do? I c-couldn’t take it to c-college anyway, so.” Bill and Eddie’s school didn’t let freshman bring cars. Ben was planning on bring his car to college, though, and Stan was of course bringing his pride and joy to the city with himself and Bev. She wasn’t sure how they were going to afford the parking for it, but they’d figure it out. Stan had bought that car himself, every cent of it from his own account. He wouldn’t leave it if he had an offer to go to space.

“I heard someone I don’t even know the name of talking about the party tonight,” Eddie added thoughtfully. He scratched at his chin. “I think we’ll have a bigger turn out than last year.”

“Noah is coming, right?” Mike asked, scratching at the side of his nose.

“Yeah! He has a thing for a little bit tonight, but he’ll be there around eight.”

“Is he going to stay over?” Mike asked, which was a perfectly reasonable question. Had to figure out sleeping arrangements, and all. But Richie hacked into his napkin and even Bill, himself, looked a little green.

Eddie shuffled forward, looking the smallest bit pleased. “Yeah, I think he will.” He shoveled a small spoonful of corn into his mouth.

“Oof,” Beverly smirked, raising her eyebrows. “Bout damn time Eddie got the room.” The room might as well have been spelled The Room. It was named for two things, the worst movie in existence, which they watched as a group in the aforementioned room the morning after their first party, and sleepover, as it were. The other thing was the room itself. Mike’s farm house was old, complete with a small guest house, which stayed thoroughly locked when his grandparents were away with anything that might break inside, and a small, secret staircase nestled in the back of the house. It led up to what, in the way way old times, served as a servant’s quarters. Now it served as just about the only place people could make out… or attend to other extracurricular, as it were, without fear of getting barged in on. Their first sleep-over, she and Richie had disappeared to the Room, which is what gave it it’s name in the first place. She looked over at Rich with a sly grin, it felt like centuries ago, not years, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was watching Eddie.

“Ah, yes,” he raised his cup as if it were a chalice, “We will gather this eve to celebrate the christening of young Edward’s virginity.” He spoke heartily, in an accent no unsimilar to his Faire voice.

“Uh,” Eddie blinked at Richie. The single syllable said all it needed to. She cringed. Stan looked like he’d rather be sitting in an actual swamp with the original cast of Shrek the musical than where he was currently sitting. Ben caught her eye and smiled shallowly. She swallowed and blinked. Ben looked like he knew. Bev, honestly, had her suspicions. Eddie was an adult, and his boyfriend lived alone. It was an easy line to draw between dots. But Ben looked like he wholeheartedly knew exactly what he and Noah were getting down to. Bev wondered how, when he and Eddie had become those kinds of friends. Maybe she hadn't been paying the kind of attention she thought she was. 

“What,” Richie deadpanned after too long of a pause. He looked away from Eddie, back to the table, and grabbed at his food again, “you’re putting out for a guy that won’t hold your fucking hand?”

Bev had a feeling this conversation was headed down the drain, but Richie, admittedly full of surprises, had somehow managed to make it worse than what she was expecting.

Eddie was rather easy to rile up. He got shout-y over completely frivolous things, and getting him to scream in that high pitched voice of his was really not an accomplishment. It was when Eddie was made truly angry that was a feat. His anger was slow and and cold. “That’s,” he said in a low, furious voice, “ _really_ fucking rich, coming from you.” Bev pressed her face into her hands, not giving a shit about her makeup. Bill sat up, already ready to divert. He couldn’t divert their way out of every fight, though.

“When was it?” Richie pressed, leaning over Stan. “Come on, _Spaghetti_ ,” he spit out with a weird tone. Like it was a joke. Like Richie really, really wanted it to be a joke. Like he needed it to be a joke, “give us the details. How long it’d take him to get you on your back, huh?”

“He didn’t have to-” Eddie spluttered incredulously before stopping himself, “you know what?” Eddie snapped the lid on his salad, gathering his water bottle, ignoring the mild protests of their friends. “I don’t owe you an explanation. I don’t owe you anything. Beep motherfucking beep, Richie.” He pushed away from the table with that, despite Bill’s soft calls for him. “See you guys after work.”

“Jesus Christ,” Richie rolled his eyes at the dramatics. “Take a fucking joke!” He called after Eddie, trying to laugh. It sounded horrid and raspy.

She had no idea why, but Bev looked up at Bill next. Bill looked different than he had when Richie and Eddie had had these tiffs in the past. He looked furious, staring at Richie harshly. He looked like he was getting stretched thinner and thinner. She almost expected him to snap. She supposed he did in a way, but not in the way he really wanted to.

“Go fuck yourself, Richie,” Bill told him coldly, but made no move to follow Eddie, before changing the subject, once again.

* * *

 

The only good thing about being angry at Richie is most times when he was, it seemed like it was a shared sentiment. The car ride was terrible, but Eddie refused to back down and go with Mike. They were all going the same place anyway, and the farm wasn't that far away. Bill seemed pissed too, which pleased Eddie in a kinship sort of way. At least he wasn't alone in that car ride. 

That left Richie to harass Stan, the only one who didn't seem ready to just shove him out of the car. But Richie, uncomfortable with getting ignored by Bill and Eddie, was pushing him closer and closer towards it. He always did that. He couldn't just accept being wrong and say sorry. He had to push and push and push and ignore and ignore and ignore. He knew making people upset actually made Richie uncomfortable, he knew it did. Eddie knew Richie hated every "beep beep Richie" a lot. But Richie never handled it well, not once in his life. He almost seemed to behave like if he never acknowledged that he was wrong, he'd never be wrong. It was infuriating. It was more infuriating than his actions at lunch.  Sometimes Richie's Richie-ness was absolutely suffocating. Eddie felt in that car, for the first time in a very long time, like he couldn't breathe. 

"Staniel, Staniel," Richie shook the back of Stan's chair.

"Fucking what, Rich?" Stan demanded tersely, looking back towards Eddie to check his blind spot to change lanes. Stan was a careful driver. 

"Do you know what the hardest thing about fucking a corpse is?" He pressed lecherously, leaning over even further. Eddie gagged, and Bill whipped his head back with a disgusted look.

"Richie that's fucking disgustin-" Eddie cut in before Stan could reply.

"I didn't ask you," Richie didn't even look down at him, that fucking bastard, "I'm talking to Stanny, now, do you need me to ask again, because I will,"

"Richie, I don't care, sit down." Stan instructed firmly. Bill looked back to the road. 

"Staniel, you have to answer my question first, do you know what the hardest thing about-"

"For fuck's sake, I don't kno-" a horn blared at them, and Bill hollered. Their car swerved violently, and Eddie's face crashed into the window, feeling Richie's body weight slam into him a bit. 

There was a blaring horn behind them, and Stan slammed on the brake, sending Eddie flying forward, narrowly missing smashing his face into Bill's seat in front of him. Richie was not as lucky, and Eddie heard a sickening crunch when Richie slammed into Stan's seat. The car swerved again, moving much slower. Eddie realized they had been screaming the entire time, but he hadn't been able to hear it until that moment. 

He heard Bill's voice first, clear and deep but still frenzied. "PULL OVER, STAN, FUCKING PULL-"

"I'M TRYING I'M FUCKING-" Stan's voice was higher than Eddie had ever heard it, rushed and panicked. Another horn, and Stan made a noise he might call a screech. Eddie hadn't said anything, feeling his lungs scratch at his throat and his head fuzzy and his vision feathered on the edges. He realized there was something on his face. Big and warm, at the sides of his cheeks.

"STAN, PULL OVER."

"EDDIE," the thing on his face was Richie, more specifically his hands. Eddie blinked, looking up at his face. His nose was bleeding, dripping into his mouth, and his glasses were crooked. He tugged Eddie's face to look at his repeatedly, "EDDIE, CAN YOU BREATHE?"

"WHERE, BILL, WHERE?" Eddie squinted at the shouting, not responding to Richie yet. Feeling like it was fuzzy and faded, like crawling throw pudding, and somehow sharp and jagged like the pain in the side of his head.

"EDDIE," Richie brought his face up again to look into his. Eddie didn't want to look at his, he was bleeding and it was gross. "DO YOU NEED YOUR INHALER, EDS, CAN YOU BREATHE?"

"ANYWHERE, STAN, YOU CAN'T-"

"BILL, GET THE FUCKING INHALER,"

"THERE'S NOWHERE TO-"

"INHALER, BILL-"

"ALRIGHT, FUCK WHERE IS IT-"

"THE GLOVE COMPARTMENT-"

"STAN, TURN, GOD, PULL OVER. YOU'RE SWERVING ALL OVER THE-"

Eddie grabbed one of Richie's hands on his face, wrapping his fingers over his. Richie looked back to him. His eyes were wide and worried and upset, chilling on Eddie's face. He was bleeding, and all he could think about was Eddie's inhaler?

"WHERE-"

"JUST PAST THAT STOP SIGN, THERE, YEAH."

The car was slowing even more, and Eddie heard the clatter as Bill looked for the inhaler Eddie didn't need. He could breathe. His head hurt, but he could think of who the president was and what his last name was. He could remember Richie, and Richie's rambling. He could remember sitting on Richie's grass for hours, listening to Richie ramble for hours about missing out on something without even knowing what you were missing out on. Somehow connecting all of that to road-signs. He was fine. He could see.

"Hey, Eddie, look at me-"

He could see maybe better than he could before.

"Holy shit," he exhaled a breath, looking up and into Richie's eyes. "I'm stop signs." He didn't need to ask. He knew.

"Guys, I think Eddie has a concussion." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway!  
> we got one more chapter before this fic takes a break. pls tell me ur guesses and theories i live for them.   
> anyway if you're reading this after i updated it's gonna be sleepover saturday with m n my friends at tossertozier tungler dot com come hang out!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a note:  
> i know some of you have jokingly said (and i live for it tbh) that you really relate to richie in this story. i just wanted to give a warning to anyone who might be reading this that relates. richie has a really nasty bout of internalized homophobia in this chapter and he's very mean to himself. i don't necessarily know what to tag it as, but i wanted to let y'all know it's there. thanks guys.

All of Richie’s friends were pissed at him and his nose was bleeding, so it was kind of a shitty day. They stumbled out of the car at the point just beyond the stop sign. Eddie seemed to snap out of whatever weird fever dream he was having, talking about the stop sign or something, and ripped his body away from Richie. Richie had no idea what he was on about, but was still worried they’d seriously scrambled his brains a little bit. But Eddie vehemently denied needing an aspirator, and sat on the curb six feet away from Richie.

His nose was determined to bleed, but Bill took a swift look at his face and said “I don’t think that’s broken,” before chasing a hysterical Stan around his car, who was inspecting every inch of it.

They hadn’t gotten hit, so far as Richie could tell. Someone had just made a risky left turn, and Stan hadn’t noticed to slow down, he swerved, almost ramming someone in his blind spot, but they got out of the way quickly enough into the next lane. The car was fine, but Stan was badly shaken, and Eddie seemed insistent on not talking to any of them.

And Richie...he felt like a piece of shit, honestly. He sat down on the curb, feeling his leg bounce uncontrollably. He didn’t... He had nothing to say. Nothing that Stan, or Eddie or Bill for that matter, wanted to hear. The guilt gnawed at his stomach, feeling like it was trying rearrange his organs in his stomach. He didn’t even know where to start to piece an apology together. They definitely didn’t want to hear the sound of his voice anyway, not that they ever really wanted to, probably.

“Give me your keys, Stan,” Bill demanded, “we shouldn’t stay here longer than we need to. You can’t fucking drive like this.” Stan furrowed his eyebrow, not in annoyance or irritation the way Eddie did so often, but in thought. He turned to Richie, eyes sweeping over them. Richie thought he was getting assessed by his friend in the prim little polo shirt, but he had no idea on what.

“How’s your face?” Stan asked flatly, not as if he was terribly concerned about Richie’s health at the moment.

“Uh,” Richie grunted dumbly, brushing his fingers over his nose. It didn’t seem swollen, “bleeding’s stopped.” He felt stupid. “Fine, I guess.”

Stan threw his keys at him without another word. He turned and opened up a rear door. Bill opened his mouth to argue with that decision, but Eddie had already stood from the curb, following Stan into the back seat. They all knew Bill couldn’t drive for shit, Eddie still looked a little distraught, and no matter how mad Stan was at Richie, the safety of that car came first. It didn’t mean Stan wasn’t going to kill Richie, slowly, perhaps with a big stick.

Bill didn’t say anything, but he grumbled when he opened the passenger door.

They drove there in silence.

Richie could almost hear the crack of Eddie’s head against the window again in the quiet. He kept replaying it. He wondered if he’d hear it forever. His fingers tapped nervously against the wheel as he thought about asking Eddie about it. He had a feeling he’d just piss him off more than he already did that day if he tried.

When he pulled up to the farm, Bev was in the bed of the truck, handing something down to Ben. She whistled loudly. “Holy fucking shit,” she swore, impressed voice on while Richie parked Stan’s car safely next to the truck. “I never thought I’d see the day.” She was clearly referencing that Stan let Richie drive his car. Richie got out of the car and paid her no mind. He briefly looked at Bill, who was gravely shaking his head, as if to tell her that now wasn’t a good time. Richie turned back, looking for Eddie on the other side of the car. He stood up fine, looking like he had a relatively clear head. Richie crossed behind the car anyway, standing next to him. He didn’t say anything, just watched for any sign of discomfort.

“Is everything okay?” Ben asked, holding the case where it was against his chest, eyes searching between them.

“We’re all fine, Ben.” Bill answered cleanly. Funny way of answering that, Mushmouth, Richie thought with an eye-roll. ' _No, nothing’s okay because Richie is a douche and we should have never started talking to him in the first place, but we’re generally without bodily harm.’_

Mike was a half jog over from the barn to them. He slowed as he neared the truck, sensing the tense energy.

“Hey Mike,” it was Eddie who spoke first, scuffing his sneakers in the graveling parking lot, “do you have any advil?” He asked quietly. Richie turned to look down at him. He knew he was in pain and wasn’t saying anything. He could be a yappy bitch but not about the important things. He reached for Eddie’s elbow with concern. Eddie practically lurched away from him. Fuck, fine.

“Yeah, uh, inside. Let’s go get some.” Mike gestured towards the house. Eddie stepped away. Richie walked him go. His paces looked normal. Mike wrapped an arm over his shoulder. Eddie let him.

“Lemme take that from you, Bennyman, my good _chap-_ ” his vowel sound was off. He could almost feel the placement off on his own mouth. There was really fucking nothing he could do right anymore. He took the cooler from a confused looking Ben anyway, surprised at how heavy it was, and made for the barn. By the time he made it through the double doors, his arms were shaking. Or maybe they were shaking before and he hadn’t noticed. He set down the cooler at the table he and Bill already dragged out into the barn the day before. It was half full already with ice boxes. Bev and Ben had already brought out the speakers, apparently. They were plugged into the corner. He and Bev picked the music the first year. Last year everything was more complicated, but it was mostly his playlists. He didn’t know whether or not to just plug in his phone or wait.

He pressed his hands over his face, breathing slowly, realizing they were still shaking. He rolled his eyes when he exhaled, get a fucking grip, loser.

When he looked up, Mike was standing at the barn door. He wasn’t holding anything, just staring.

Richie jumped back,  “jesus fuck, Mike.” He exhaled sharply, pressing a hand over his heart, “you scared the shit out of me.”

“Rich, are you okay?”

“Why yeez of courez,” Richie replied grandly in an accent that mashed together the candlestick from Beauty and the Beast and an old russian man, “how elze mays I be of serveece?” he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets and crossing towards the stereo. Some of the dust from the barn was getting into his eye, it started twitching. “Ach, fuck,” he swore, shoving his glasses on top of his head. He rubbed at his eye, feeling it twitch and seize under his touch. “Sorry Mike, my eye is having a seizure.”

“Are you sleeping right now, Rich?” Mike asked, in a very Mike tone that combined sternness with gentle care well. It sounded out of place, and it made Richie’s spine tingle a little bit. Where had that even came from?

“As well as ever!” Richie joked with a smile, wishing his eye would stop convulsing so it might be convincing. Not that it was incredibly convincing anyway, because Richie wasn’t known for having the best sleep patterns in the world, but whatever. “How do you get this face without beauty sleep?”

Mike looked highly skeptical. “Do you wanna go lay down for a little bit?” He suggested lightly, stepping into the barn and crossing his arms.

Richie laughed incredulously, “why the fuck would I want to-” he stumbled on a piece of wood that jut out from the floor. Mike just watched him flail for a moment.

“Please, Richie,” Mike replied with a flat voice, “don’t break my house tonight, take a damn nap.” And the thing was, Richie could tell when he was being manipulated. Mike made it sound like it was a thing for Mike, but Richie knew Mike wanted Richie to nap for Richie’s sake. But it was Mike, and Richie never really said no to him. He would go sit up there and watch vines for twenty minutes if it would make Mike that happy, why not.

He nodded, swallowing around something thick in his throat. He brush past Mike with a pat on his shoulder, “I’ll be in your room jacking off if you need me.”  
“Fucking, ugh. God, Richie.”

When Richie woke up, it was dark out. He woke up sticky and disoriented and surprised, in general. He really didn’t think he was that tired. It was hotter in the farmhouse than he anticipated it being, a summer night in Derry. His shirt was sticking to him. He still had dried blood on his nose, and his hair was damp and sweaty.

He could hear the music from Mike’s quaint bedroom and the sound of talking. If Richie was sure of anything, it was that there was at least double the crowd there was last time.

He shook out his hair and stood, grabbing his phone where it fell on his stomach. It was almost eleven. He tried to ignore the flat punch in the chest that his phone was free of notifications and the party started hours ago. He ran his hand through his hair. It was tangled and gross. Fantastic.

Twenty minutes of making do with what he could find in an attempt to make himself more presentable, the noise levels downstairs got to be too much of a curiosity. He smelled like Mike and barely felt like himself, but when did he these days?

At the top of the stairs, he paused. There was at least forty people in Mike’s foyer and hallway alone. It was packed. Jesus Christ, it was busy. The music was pounding and drinks were very evidently flowing. It was shitty pop-music. He swung down the steps with almost a laugh. Look at the fucking losers now. He made his way to the kitchen, hoping he could find at least one of his friends there, maybe get an explanation on what was going on. 

The kitchen only had two or three people in the one corner. In Mike's house, the dining room was small and tucked off the corner of the kitchen. He could see just enough of it from his spot without going in. He could see Bill and Stan, sitting there. They were laughing loudly. Noah was standing there, just off the edge of the table, telling a story they were all apparently enthralled with.

He didn't want to see his friends anymore. He ignored the thought that told him they were better off that way, anyway. He turned back down the hall, pressing himself into a wall in the hallway. He pulled out his phone and tried to look busy, so that when one of his friends did come out of there, he could look surprised and make a joke. He was doing nothing on his phone for a solid ten minutes.

Finally, Eddie brushed by him without a word. He almost laughed. He could be so damn stubborn when he was mad. He did look fucking cute, wearing jean shorts and a blue shirt. Preppy little nerd. Richie turned, gauging if it was an accident or not, watching the long legs in the shorter than necessary shorts. He called out “hey, Eds!”

The round little ass down the hall did a quick, confused turn and ah, fuck that was not Eddie-  that was some other way less cute dude, abort Richie, you fucking moron, he thought, and he dipped around the corner evasively. He tried not to think long about it. It was one thing to call Eddie cute. He just was, objectively. The way baby ducks were. They’re cute and bad at walking, straight facts. Some other random dude was...entirely different.

He really didn’t want to think about it.

“Hey, Richie~” the universe blessedly provided him a distraction in the form of Katie. Katie was the attendant of Richie’s stand at the Faire. Her main job was to keep people from fucking killing him. Katie had a round face and bright eyes. She had soft-looking skin almost the color of an almond shell, and coarse curly hair she always kept twisted up at the Faire. It was falling, bouncy and loose, almost to her shoulders that night. She was sweet, almost too much so. Someone Richie couldn’t really be lovingly mean to, and therefore had no interest in being good friends with.

He looped an arm over her anyway, because she was tugging two girls behind her and both of them looked at him as if they already knew who he was. “Hello,” he greeted her in a weird accent. He didn’t know who he was doing. Almost a smooth-talker, “beautiful lady, beautiful as ever.”  
She didn’t roll her eyes the way his friends would. She laughed in a way Richie knew was not her real laugh, and turned to her friends. “This is Richie, we work together. He plays the fool at the Faire,” she nearly shouted over the music.

“ _Enchante_ ,” he winked.

“And in real life, too,” Mike’s voice teased him from over his shoulder. He turned back, and there was the man himself, Bill next to him. He didn’t know why it felt like a punch in the gut. It was a joke he heard all the time. He was a fucking idiot, why would he get introduced as anything else?

“Mike, buddy,” he clapped him on the shoulder, ignoring any raw feeling in his stomach, “fantastic party, man. Holy fuck.” It was insane, the number of people in the living room. They were nearly shoulder to shoulder. Mike looked slightly alarmed. His party experience was minimal in general. All of theirs was. Richie had no idea how it blew up like that.

“Yeah, I- uh.” Either Mike’s voice broke off or Richie couldn’t hear it because of the fucking music.

“People are coming in, too,” piped up the smaller of the two girls Katie dragged over, with stringy looking blonde hair sticking to her head. Richie squinted above the heads, fairly easy if he could say so himself, at the open door. His blood ran a little cold at the group of guys walking in.

“Isn’t that the…” Bill had to stand on his toes to see. Richie nodded tightly, turning back to Mike and Bill, hoping Bill wouldn’t say anything else.

“Isn’t that who?” Mike asked curiously. Unfortunately, Mike was almost as short as Eddie, and did not have a hope of seeing over the heads of the crowd.

“No one.” Richie answered at the same time Bill said

“Henry B-Bowers and his g-gang of assholes,” Bill almost shouted over the music. Richie knew logically that they couldn’t hear him, but he did an anxious doubletake anyway, “I d-don’t know what they’re doing here. They’ve guh-gotta be in their 20’s now, they were seniors when w-we were freshman,” Bill commented before sipping out of his cup. Richie wanted to comment on how he wasn’t the only 20-something there, but it seemed better not to. Richie could use a drink himself. He thought about knicking it out of Bill’s hand, but due to Bill’s stand-offish posture, he was pretty sure he was still pissed at him.

“How do you guys know them?” Mike asked loudly, clearly frustrated that he couldn’t see them.

Bill snorted. “They did a remarkable job rearranging Richie’s face one time in freshman year.”

Mike looked outraged, “they did WHAT?!” He looked back and forth between Richie and Bill with aghast. They did. Richie got his face pounded into the pavement that March afternoon. “They shouldn’t fucking be here!” Mike added angrily, looking like he was ready to push through the crowd and throw them out himself, even though he had no idea what they looked like.

“Mike, stop. It’s not that big of a deal,” Richie chastised them, eyeing Bill’s cup again. He could really go for a drink. “I was being a mouthy little shithead,”

“Rich, that doesn’t-”

“Let it go, I fucking deserved it anyway.” Richie countered sternly. Mike’s jaw dropped a little bit, but his mouth fell dead of protests. He looked back and forth between Richie and Bill again, with the same wide-eyed appall. He stopped on Bill, waiting for him to say something. Bill sipped his drink again. “I’m going to go get a drink,” Richie broke away from the two quickly. He had to almost wiggle down the hall, passing by a couple kissing grossly, and a group of girls already arguing.

He stepped into the kitchen, and fought the urge to vomit.

There was a dining room, small but sturdy, set off just to the side. So far as Richie could tell, it was much emptier of his friends than it had been before. But just barely through the gap, he could see his Eddie Kaspbrak, sitting on the table itself, Noah in between his legs. They were kissing like Noah was Eddie’s general oxygen supply. Richie wondered if maybe he had already blacked out that night and forgot drinking a bottle of vodka, because he seriously needed to vomit.

 _Wow_ , he thought to himself, he really _was_ a homophobic piece of shit.

He went straight past the bottles littering the kitchen to the small porch. It was blissfully empty, and he shut the glass sliding door behind him with a solid thud. His vape was in his bag in Stan’s car, he never got it out, but he had half a pack of North American spirits just calling his name from his pocket. His hands shook as he lit the cigarette, looking out at the barn, seemingly more packed with people than the living room had been.

He knew he should do what he did last year at the same party. His heart almost sank at the thought of last year, overdramatic prat it was. There were only like forty people there, he kissed some girl while they smoked weed on the lawn. The losers played a really long game of charades that was very bad and Richie was crying of laughter. He shared the double in the guest bedroom with Eddie, and they stayed up talking for hours about why parties are stupid, in general. He was so goddamned happy.

And now, because of fucking Noah, there was no space big enough on the premises for Richie and nowhere he even wanted to be.

“ _But that’s not true_ ,” the rational part of his brain spoke up as his cigarette dwindled down. “ _That guy didn’t do anything_ .”  
But he fucking did, Richie knew it. He was ruining things by existing in that dining room. He could go back to Kansas or college or wherever the fuck he came from.

“ _You’re just pissed he’s kissing Eddie_.”

Richie wrestled with that thought as he wrestled to light another cigarette. It was fucking gross to look at, it made his stomach lurch to think about. He didn’t want to be fucking homophobic, but he didn’t want to look at it.

“ _You’re not, you just want to kiss Eddie_ .” He almost bit through his cigarette at the intrusiveness of his own thought. He needed a drink. He needed to be drunk. He stamped out the expensive cigarette, because he wasn’t gonna smoke in Mike’s house. “ _You’re attracted to him_.”

He threw the cigarette into the garden, feeling slightly remorseful, and coughed. He rubbed at his reddening nose, and wished, so badly, that he could stop fucking thinking.

“ _Like you were attracted to that other guy_.”

He threw open the door to the house, it banged against the other side. Goddamnit, he just wanted to be able to stop thinking about Eddie. To stop thinking at all. His mind was racing a mile ahead of him, leaving his body kicked in the ribs and lying in the dust.

He cracked his knuckles, almost yelling with frustration when he noticed his hands were still fucking shaking. He shut the door behind him, it clattered back into the frame. His head was starting to pound from the music, and he looked around the room. He wanted to go see if Eddie was still in the dining room. There were bottles everywhere, on every surface of the kitchen.

His hands reached for Eddie, but they got to the Jameson first.

* * *

It was more than a chore than a party, that night was for the majority of the Loser’s Club. Stan was already exhausted, already planning his escape to Mike’s bedroom. It was agreed he’d sleep there that night, when they were locking all of the upstairs rooms. They only left open the base floor level of the house and the barn. Stan had no idea how, or when, they’d get all of those people out of there. Or where they even came from. It happened quickly, and they were left astonished. As far as he knew, none of them ever went to anything like what their party turned into before. It really didn’t feel like a party, trying to keep Mike’s house from getting destroyed. They even had a team meeting about it early in the night, in the dining room with everyone sans Richie, who they graciously let sleep. Mike told him Richie was up, but Stan hadn’t seen much of him.

He was walking alone back from the barn to the house, hands in his pockets, way too sober for any of this. The weirdest part was, he wasn’t particularly interested in any of it. There were plenty of pretty girls there, girls who he knew and wouldn’t talk to him if he paid them to in high school. Girls that seemed interested in him now. Now that he didn’t care too much about them, because he couldn’t get the squeaky laugh of Patty Blum out of his head.

He opened the door to the house, it was jam-packed as it had been an hour ago, and thought to himself that maybe he was a bit more fucked when he thought, there. Ben and Bev were standing by the music set up in the corner, looking like they were turning it down a bit. It was pounding. He crossed to them, waving a hand in lieu of a greeting, because it was just too loud. Ben nodded back, but Bev kept her concentration on her phone.

“Hellooooo~” a familiar voice drawled and Stan felt something in his stomach drop. “fuckwads, has anyone gotten their teat sucked yet?” Stan scrunched up his nose. He turned, and a step behind him was Richie. A very drunk Richie. Arguably more drunk than Stan had ever seen Richie. He had an arm looped over Ben and Bev, but removed his arm from Ben to down the last of whatever god awful concoction was in his cup. Of course, no one responded to his incredibly strange question.

Bev beamed at him, grabbing at the ends of his hair, “hey bitch,” she was high, but not anywhere near the level of fucked Richie was, “where have you been?”

“You know,” he wrapped his hands around her waist and Stan blinked. He ignored his gut reaction to cover Ben’s eyes because it was, well, stupid. “Getting to, getting to. Know a few sets of tonsils,” he grinned and slurred slightly. He bent his head and pressed a kiss into her shoulder. Stan was very, very confused. He turned to see if he could find Mike, to gauge his what the fuck reaction to the entire thing, praying he didn’t see Bill’s pissed off expression instead. He saw neither. The only other person watching the entire thing, legs bent over his boyfriend, was Eddie. Stan heaved a sigh. He grabbed Bev’s wrist, tugging her out his grip. “Stanieeeel,” Richie whined, “you getting jealous, _baby_ ?” He leered, grabbing for Stan’s midsection. Stan stepped back. Richie must have been really, really drunk. Richie started laughing, a sickly, cackling sound. “FU-fucking. Fucking with you! Fucking with you, Stanny! You’re. You’re not a _gross_ fucking-”

Mike appeared over Richie’s shoulder, looking confused as to why he even showed up there. It was almost like Mike had a fuck-shit’s-not-going-well sensor inside of him. Bill was a step behind him. “Wanna get out of the noise for a bit, guys?” Stan asked without really asking, jerking his head at the slightly swaying Richie.

“The noise? The noise, fucking. That. That slut over there,” Richie pointed in a nonsensical direction. Stan looked to Bill.

“We’re gonna hang out for a while by ourselves guys,” he announced, or Stan thought he did. He really couldn’t hear for shit. “This all started as a thing for us, anyway.” And apparently, it was ending with 300 people on Mike’s farm.

“Mmmm-kay,” Richie hummed. “I’m gonna, get.” He turned, seemingly to leave. Mike had to almost jump to grab his shoulders, because Richie had quite a few inches on him.

“Let’s get some water,” Mike told him gently, asking Stan with his eyes what the hell happened to Rich. Stan shrugged with aghast. He had no idea. He hadn’t seen him all night.

Bill looked just straight up irritated, but turned and led the way for Mike and Richie. “Meet y’all in the room,” Mike called over his shoulder. Or, that was the only place Stan could see them going. It was so damn loud.

It took him another half an hour to actually make it up the stairs. He was decently sure that there were people fucking on one of the couches, in the middle of plain view. He was too tired to try and stop them. But he had dealt with a number of other things in the foyer, people near to vomiting, Ben cleaned up an ominous spill. Bev was muttering with Eddie in the corner.

He was just a foot behind Ben and Bev when they crept up the stairs, thoroughly giving up on helping people below.

“Hey, guys,” Ben greeted the room politely. Richie looked a lot more sober, and solemn. He was sitting on the double bed shoved into the corner, back against the wall. He waved at Ben.

Bill looked like he was moments away from falling asleep himself, laying on the rest of the bed. Mike was sitting on a small futon couch.

Richie’s eyes settled beyond Stan. “Where’s Prince Charming?” He asked Eddie, faking a jovial tone, Stan could tell. He was pretty sure Eddie could tell too, but he didn’t acknowledge it.

“Calling a cab for someone who was drunk trying to drive home,” Eddie answered lightly. “He’ll be up soon.” He was wearing a sweatshirt, god knew why, it was so hot. Stan realized it was Noah’s, or it had to be. It was grey and far too large for Eddie. Eddie grabbed a pillow from the futon, and set it on the floor, sitting on it. He was very bundled into his sweater, like a turtle hiding in a shell. The room was small, and the entire thing was wooden, but Mike’s grandma did an effective job at turning it into a secondary guest room, with a small closet and a little tv.

“Guys,” Bev began, sinking down to sit next to Eddie, sans pillow, “you think I could win some money if I challenged some drunk people to a dance off?" It was an inane topic, but a talkable one, which was easily accepted. 

True to Eddie’s word, Noah was upstairs within another ten minutes. Mike stood up, like he was going to offer them the couch that Stan was also occupying. Stan kicked him. For fuck’s sake, he didn’t like that Noah was so much older than Eddie, but his friends acted like he was on death’s door. The man could handle the floor. He sank down to sit beside Eddie. Eddie hummed happily, shifting into his space, tucking his legs over Noah’s. For a moment, he seemed to freeze, but then remembered his company, and let Eddie drape himself all over him.

Stan realized there were footsteps behind him, and he turned. Richie was making his way back towards the door, “where are you going?” Stan demanded.

“To get a drink, _dad_.” He snarled back.

Mike sighed.

“Noo,” Bev complained, standing up and grabbing Richie. She tugged him back to the bed. It was the first time Stan had seen Richie not look particularly interested in getting grabbed by Bev. “Let’s play a game!” She insisted, shoving Bill’s shoulder in a sharp reminder to wake up. Bill looked completely disinterested in that idea. Bev sat back on the bed, opening her arms for Richie.

He didn’t fall into them, sparing a glance for the other side of the room. He sank down the wall. He sat on the floor, but at least he was sitting.

“What game?” Mike asked cheerfully, like it wasn’t arguably the most awkward room in Maine, if not the country. Bev floundered.

“Never have I ever?” Ben suggested helpfully.

There were weak protests, but when Bill groaned and rolled to the floor himself, then stuck up his hands with ten fingers, Stan knew they were stuck playing the game.

It was a weird formation, Bill sitting against one wall, then Eddie and Noah on the adjacent wall, Richie almost exactly opposite Bill, and then Ben and Bev on the bed against the last wall. Mike and Stan on a futon in the middle of them all. And truthfully, Stan hated the game. Deplored it. Especially playing it with his friends. They knew all of this information about each other. They spent every goddamned day together. There was nothing left. There was a terse, disjointed energy in the room. They barely talked asside from the rounds, never really joked. They stumbled through a few rounds anyway, everyone in the room knowing it was for Richie’s benefit so he didn’t drink himself under a table, but Richie.

“Uh,” Bev squinted at the ceiling. “Never have I ever spoken another language fluently.” Stan blinked at her with near astonishment. If one of them spoke another language, did she really think there’d be any way they wouldn’t know that by now?

His annoyed mental rant was interrupted by Eddie saying “ _really_?”

“Yeah,” Noah laughed. Stan wasn’t keeping track, but he must’ve dropped a finger.

“Which one?” Ben asked curiously from across the room, inviting everyone into their little conversation.

“Portuguese,” he replied humbly. The room, and Stan, honestly, was waiting for an explanation. He spoke again, “my Ma was raised in Brazil. She’s fluent. It didn’t get spoken a ton in my house growing up, but I wanted to learn it, so I took it in college.” Eddie, for some reason, apparently found the entire thing very attractive. He pressed his palm to one side of Noah’s face, tugging him down just enough to kiss his cheek.

“Never have I ever,” Richie started, just a moment too soon, in a tone too bitter, “put gel in perfectly good curls.” He said pointedly. Stan gave him a flat look which he didn’t look at, at the round  so clearly pointed at Noah.

Noah laughed with good nature as he put his finger down, “never have _I_ ever,” he countered, skipping Eddie’s turn, “had hair that didn’t need gel.”

Mike and Ben laughed, and Stan could applaud Noah for being kind in his response. But ultimately, it was the wrong response. It was the wrong time to challenge Richie, especially on a thing like jokes. Richie's face reddened as he leaned forward, and he squinted at Noah under his glasses.

"Never have I ever," Richie started again and Stan could groan, "interrupted a years long tradition between friends."

The air in between them all ran cold. Noah didn't put down a finger.

"No? Let's try again: never have I ever," Richie began again, despite Bev's quiet protest of " _Richie_...", " _fucked_ someone _five years younger_ than me."

"Hey, Rich, fucking-" Bill began but Richie ignored him. Noah still hadn't moved. 

"I've got more, you insufferable fucking asshole. Never have I ever," Richie started again. 

"Alright, Richie," Eddie's voice was shrill and hurt, alarmed, "you've made your point," Eddie spoke over him, words flying out quickly, "enough."

Richie, never for a moment, stopped talking, even as his other friends spoke. “You know what," he leaned forward, mean look twisting up his features, "I'm as _shocked_ as you are, Eddie-bear, that you managed to find someone as outstandingly boring as you are that can tolerate your rambling for more than 15 minutes, but that doesn't mean you need to keep dragging him into our group shit.”

“Bee-” Eddie didn't finish his beep because his voice cracked, a devastating sound to the room. Beverly turned scarlet with rage on the bed, mouth opening, awkwardly floundering to form a sentence. She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding when Bill stood up. Stan felt like the music from downstairs was pounding the floor beneath them.

Bill took a deep breath then. He walked across that room as if it were a funeral march, cold, calculated steps, like he was prolonging the inevitable, like he knew what he had to do and desperately didn't want to. And when he was toe to toe with Richie Tozier, his best friend on the face of the planet, he took another breath, and did what needed done.

He grabbed Richie by the collar of his shirt. He ignored Richie’s soft spoken question of Bill’s name, took a big swing backwards, and punched Richie in the face.

Stan, honest to God, missed what happened next. Stan was never one for chaos. He didn't like not having control over what was going on. There was yelling from multiple parties, what sounded like Richie running down the set of steps, and then Mike shoving Bill down the same. It was quiet for a long moment before he, too, went down the steps. And he followed Richie. 

Richie was sitting on the ground, arms around his knees. The barn was large, towering behind him about 20 feet back. He was starkly alone. The light was just barely hitting the corner of his face. His body cast a long shadow in front of him, shrouding him.

Stan genuinely could not remember the last time he saw Richie Tozier look so fucking small.

There were times when Stan reasoned he really hated Richie. He was almost concerned with his mental health, concerned with the fact that it seemed to him that it didn't matter what he did, not anymore, because Richie would never be able to make Stan not love him. He walked up to Richie, sitting by himself on the ground. Richie heard his footsteps, and didn't look up from his head dropped on his knees. Stan paused when he reached him. He was unsure of exactly how to proceed. Richie didn't look up, but shuffled out of his flannel. He laid it on the ground next to him. Stan exhaled, a grateful sounding noise, and sat next to Richie. 

They sat together without saying anything. Stan didn't know what to say. He knew him coming out there was enough, told Richie that they loved him. Because they did love him. He hardly needed to say it. Richie and he were never good at the mushy stuff, anyway.

"Stan, I-"

Stan didn't need an apology. Not at that moment, anyway. "It's alright, Rich." It wasn't really an apology for him anyway. He was sure his car was not what Richie was thinking about. It was quiet between the two of them again, music thumping away behind them. He didn't look at Richie's face. He knew there weren't full tears streaming, but Richie's voice sounded wet. Stan could only remember Richie even tearing up once, in 8 years of friendship.

“You know it’s gonna be okay, right?” Stan asked after a moment. It should have been a quieter moment, but the party raged on not far away. It was still kind of loud, sitting together in the driveway. Richie didn't respond. That was it, then. That was what Richie needed to hear. 

Stan’s thin fingers wrapped around his chin, digging in more forcefully than maybe he intended to. . He tugged Richie to him, and for the first time, kissed _him_ firmly on his temple, through thick dark hair. “You’re gonna be okay.”

He stood after that, because he had nothing left to say and Richie didn’t have anything else to hear. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and listened to gravel crunch under his feet as he walked away, in time with distant pop-music.

“Hey Stan?” he heard Richie call out behind him.

“Yeah, Rich?” He turned to look back at him.

“I love you.”

Something like pure affection washed over Stan. Richie was staring up at him with an open and honest face. A soft smile lifted the corner of his mouth. He exhaled as he said “you should.”

He didn’t realize until that moment just how long it had been since he heard Richie genuinely laugh. It was a loud, sharp sound, almost akin to barking, and it warmed Stan from his inside out. From 20 feet away, he looked into Richie’s face, and laughed a little bit with him.

“ _Yeah_ ,” he thought to himself, “ _we’re gonna be okay_.”

* * *

Eddie had stood up the moment Mike dragged Bill by his neck out of the room. He knew he was under the watchful gaze of a worried Ben and Bev. Stan sighed, looking around at the three of them, and then followed Mike and Bill out. Eddie tried to steady his own breathing, ignore the stinging in his chest. He turned to Noah, “take me home,” he said confidently, sounding steady. “ _Please_.” And there was the voice crack that betrayed how unsteady he was.

“Oh, Eddie,” Bev stood sympathetically. It sucked, and it wasn’t her fault, but she was the last person Eddie wanted to talk to. “You know that’s not true, right?” She asked, and it almost felt patronizing.

“Yes,” he told her sharply. He didn’t look over, he just offered Noah a hand up. Noah looked stunned, like the last five minutes shocked him into immobility, but let himself be dragged to his feet. “I know.”

Bev’s hands came to his shoulders anyway and he flinched involuntarily. Her hands flew off of them uncomfortably, “you know he-”

“ _Yes_ .” Eddie interrupted firmly, flipping around quickly. He found Ben’s eyes first. He calmed down at the soft, worried expression in them. He tried to keep the emotion that was threatening to spill over into his face nuetral. “I know. _I know_ ,” he knew Richie didn’t mean it. He didn’t want to be told that. He knew that. “I know, I’m fucking stop signs. And that he’s an _idiot-_ ” a voice crack betrayed him again, “and that he’s _hurting_. But it’s not my fault.” Bev looked puzzled. Probably at the stop signs thing, which Eddie barely understood himself. But he did know, he really did, somewhere in the back of his mind. A piece of himself that was getting harder to ignore.

“Eddie,” Ben interrupted from the bed, scooting forward to sit on the edge. “No one said it’s your fault.”

“ _It feels like_ ,” his voice was quivering. He dropped his face into his hands, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes. He took a deep, shuddering breath. He didn't know how to finish his sentence at all. He tried. He honest to God tried. Richie wouldn't let him... do anything. Anytime he pushed forward, Richie leapt back. He didn't know what to call it, or what to say. He couldn't wait for him. He wouldn't wait for him. He was not going to give more of his life away to sit there and twiddle thumbs. He was done wasting time. And the idea of being another gay kid sitting there pining over his "straight" best friend made him fucking sick. He wasn't going to do it. He refused. And Richie didn't let him think there were any other options. 

“Please, let’s go,” he turned back to Noah.

The car was buzzing with nervous energy, but Noah didn’t say anything. He clearly wanted to, hands tight on the wheel of his car, shoulders tense. Eddie couldn’t get the shakey feeling out of his chest. Noah hadn’t turned on the radio, giving Eddie ample room to talk if he wanted to. He didn’t. He wanted to go home and go to sleep and wake up and things would be better.

They pulled up to his house in silence. It was as stoic and cold looking at 2 a.m. as it ever looked. The only difference was a light in his living room. His mom must have left a lamp on.

“Thanks,” he said mildly to Noah, voice still shake-y.

“Eddie,” Noah cautioned, speaking voluntarily for the first time in a while. He grabbed Eddie’s knee. “I don’t want you to go in there like this. You’re almost in tears.”

“It’ll be fine,” Eddie shook his head. Noah unbuckled his own seat belt, and slid out of his own door. Before Eddie’s shaking hands could even unbuckle his own, Noah was opening his door. Eddie unbuckled his seat belt, and crashed into Noah’s open arms.

Noah reached down to Eddie’s seat, pulling the notch that slid it back. He shuffled them around, maneuvering so he was really sitting in Eddie’s seat, and Eddie was cradled into his chest on his lap.

Noah’s hands were big, almost as big as Richie’s. Noah made Eddie feel small. Safe, protected. Something like that. Noah’s chin pressed into Eddie’s head. “You’ve told me so much about Bill, Stan and Ben and Mike and everyone else.” He stroked a soothing hand down Eddie’s back. “Whatever it is,” Noah reassured him. Eddie pressed his face more tightly into his shoulder, “you know I won’t care.” Sometimes Noah felt like more of a gay mentor than a boyfriend. “Why won’t you tell me about Richie?”

Eddie wracked in a breath, feeling the warm summer air scrape his lungs that were aching. He pressed his hand to his face, coaxing himself out of Noah’s shoulder again, “I promised myself,” he croaked out. He did, some day in sophomore year of high school, “that I’d never cry over Richie Tozier.” Tears stung at the corner of his eyes anyway. Goddamnit. He told himself this would happen. He promised to himself to do everything he could to keep it from happening. God fucking damnit.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Noah reassured him, hugging him a little tighter.

“Later,” Eddie assured him, sitting up in his lap a little bit. “I just want to go to bed.” It would all be easier tomorrow. When there wouldn’t be any alcohol in his system and ‘that can tolerate your rambling for more than 15 minutes’ wouldn’t be the only thing he could imagine Richie saying at the moment. When it would all hurt a little less.

“Okay,” Noah agreed, swiping a tear away from Eddie’s eye the second it threatened to fall.

It wasn’t long after Eddie went inside. His bones were aching and his entire body felt entirely more heavy than he thought it would. He waved by to Noah at his doorstep. He still waited, like he had the first day, to make sure Eddie was inside before pulling away. Noah waved back, and Eddie turned his knob carefully. The way he did whenever he snuck out. There was a creak in the door if you opened it fully, so he opened it less than half way, slipping into his house silently. He stepped on the third floor board in, the quietest one. He actually had permission that night to go to a ‘sleepover at Bill’s,’ that his mother thought just he and Stan were attending. He hadn’t come home at all that day. But she didn’t need to see him at 2 a.m., smelling like beer.

“Eddie,” he almost got whip-lash, his head whipped up so quickly. He fell back a little, stumbling on his feet.

His mother was standing by their window, with only one lamp lit on a small sitting table beside her. She was wearing her night clothes. Even in the dim light, he could see her face, pink with rage. Her mouth was a thin, harsh line, her jaw tight. “ _Who_ ,” she demanded, a searing, slow hot rage so different than her regular hissy fits, “ _is that man_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!  
> so, uh. yeah. i am... sorry?? this chapter begins a bit of a break (i'm sorry) where i'll be finishing on pointe! i'll be back soon with happier (and much much shorter) chapters!  
> love y'all,  
> tossertozier aka jay, xx.


	17. Chapter 17

When Mike stirred that morning, sun streaming in through his fairly ugly floral curtains made by his grandmother a decade ago, his bed was already dipping from extra weight. He wrinkled his nose, feeling it running just slightly. No matter the amount of vigor that he put into dusting, dust permanently coated just about everything on the farm.

“Oh, good.” Stan commented plainly from the edge of the bed. “This was getting boring.”

“Stan?” Mike sat up and rubbed his nose with his palm. Stan winced. Mike wiped it with his sleeve instead. Stan didn’t look any more pleased with that tactic. “What the fuck, man?”

“You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you,” Stan said as if this were obvious, “that’s rude.”

“So you decided to sit there and stare at me?”

“I was waiting.”

“It’s fucking weird.”

Stan rolled his eyes instead of responding. He stood up. He was already dressed. His jeans looked suspiciously crisp for the morning after a party. Mike wouldn’t be surprised to find a hot iron somewhere. “Are you getting up?”

Mike groaned and laid back down “you can be worse than my Grandpa.” He snuffled grumpily, tugging his covers up to his chin. “Can’t we sleep in? Yanow’, like normal teenagers.”

“What you call normality, I call mediocrity,” Stan shrugged.

“Is there a reason you’ve decided to be particularly annoying this morning?” Mike asked bluntly, barely hidden with a yawn.  The tag on the back of his shirt was itching him. He shifted with annoyance. He grabbed at it. There was a reason he normally cut the tags out the second he bought a shirt. Stan stepped forward, and Mike had a feeling he could tell what was bugging him. Mike sat up, and Stan grabbed the back of his shirt to rip the tag out. Stan had surprisingly strong hands for such a thin guy.

“I just think it’d be wise,” rip~ his tag was now sitting in Stan’s palm. “To start clean up as early as possible.” Mike could kick himself for not realizing before. Of course Stan wasn’t just being strange, the mere idea of the mess that likely covered every square inch of the farm was making him anxious. Mike decided to not comment on it, or apologize. That’d be weird. He just swung his feet to the ground and nodded in agreement.

“Is anyone else up?” He asked, scratching the back of his neck.

“Bill’s definitely still asleep in the guest bed,” Mike remembered he and Stan had shared it. “And I think we should leave it that way.”

“Hmm?” Mike hummed, finally standing. He pulled his flannel pj pants down to trade for jeans. Stan sat back down on his bed.

“He’s not gonna be helpful,” Stan commented lightly. He wasn’t necessarily insulting Bill, just speaking truthfully. “He’s gonna tell us what to do and bitch about Richie. I was up till 2 a.m. listening to him bitch about Richie. I can’t take anymore.”

“Fair.” Mike nodded, zipping his jeans up. “Speaking of…” he let the phrase fall off, catching Stan’s eye. Stan nodded, and Mike knew they were thinking the same thing.

Eddie picked up on the third ring.

“Eddie Kaspbrak,” he spoke formally. The two of them had the phone on the bed in between them, speaker crackling slightly. Stan practically scoffed. Mike smacked him. But he couldn’t help but privately agree that it was an odd greeting – and wonder exactly where it came from. He was aware it was Eddie. That’s why he had called… Eddie.

“Hey, Eds,” Mike greeted. Stan smacked him back. Mike also inwardly smacked himself. Talk about a shitty opening. “How are you?”

“Mike,” Eddie exhaled, “hello.” He paused. Mike grimaced at Stan, and even Stan, who somehow managed to be an ever-stagnant wall of facial apathy, had a flash of sympathy across his face. “I wanted to come back to the farm and help you guys clean, and everyth-“

“Whoa, whoa. Eddie, no one wants you to come clean.” Stan was also giving the phone an incredulous look. “I mean,” Mike backtracked, “of course we always want to see you. And talk to you. If you want to talk about last night. Or anything else. Whatever you want!” He rambled. Stan’s grimace only grew as he rambled.

“ _Smooth_.” Stan mouthed at him.

“Oh. I mean. I’m alright. Really, I’m fine.” Mike bit his lip. He wondered if that was going to be accompanied by a ‘but’ and a thirty minute conversation.

They hesitated, but it seemingly wasn’t pouring out. Eddie was a bit like a tap. Bend him just the right way, and he came pouring out. Otherwise, sealed tight.

“Hey, Eddie,” Stan spoke up finally. “Do you want me to come pick you up? I can. We’re probably gonna hang out at the farm for the rest of the day.” He looked up to Mike, who nodded his affirmation. “I can. It’s no big deal.”

“I’d love to,” Eddie replied quickly, “also, hi Stan,”

“Hey Eddie.”

“But I can’t. I can’t leave the house. Or, more specifically, my room.” Mike squinted at the phone, and then up at Stan. Stan looked equally as confused, but shrugged.

“Wh- why, buddy?”

“My mother has locked me in my room.” He replied plainly.

“Eds,” Stan interrupted, “your door has no lock.” He told him factually, brow furrowed as he looked down at Mike’s black phone screen.

“You are quite literally preaching to the choir. I have no idea how she did it. But this door is not opening.” He didn’t sound necessarily upset. He sounded like a blend of confused, and shocked, and impressed.

Mike choked, “did she find out about the party?”

“I fucking wish.” He replied. “It was worse.”

“How could it be worse?” Stan asked.

“Well.” Eddie paused. Mike and Stan shared a significant look. How could anything be worse than a party filled with Gasp, drinking teens and club music?

“Long story short, she watched Noah drop me off last night including when he kissed me from the window because I don’t think she sleeps well when I’m not in the house, which – ugh, that’s something else, but anyway: I came in and I just wanted to go to bed because I was already upset because. Well. You guys know. And then she won’t let me go up the stairs and demands to know who Noah is and so I half-tell her but not really and but even that was a shitty decision because then we’re arguing and then it’s 3 a.m. and Richie is texting me and I can’t take it and I storm past and went to sleep and she couldn’t really stop me because,”

“The stairs.” Stan interrupted. Eddie’s mom didn’t have great mobility as she got older. He didn’t talk about it often, but he had mentioned she doesn’t snoop in his room the way she would when he was young because it was more difficult for her to access.

“Yeah.”

“So,” Eddie commented lightly, “I just woke up a few minutes ago. My door is locked. How was the rest of the party?”

“Eddie,” Mike backtracks, because he just skipped several topics they should probably talk about. “Jesus, that fucking _sucks_.” Stan nodded, not that Eddie could see it.

“Eh,” Mike could hear his shrug through the phone. He forgot sometimes that this was a guy who had to emotionally cope with the fact his mother had lied to him his entire life at age thirteen. “I mean. Yeah.”

“Wh-“ Mike knew the end of Stan’s sentence before it had properly begun, and he was already annoyed with him for it, “what did Rich say?” Mike gave him a flat look. “ _What_?” He mouthed at him.

“ _You know what_ ,” He mouthed back flatly. Stan averted his eyes, looking back to the phone.

“He just. Uh.” Eddie audibly swallowed. Then he exhaled. And then his voice was steely, “I really don’t want to talk about it, actually.”  
Stan opened his mouth – likely to pry, and Mike spoke over him, “That’s perfectly okay, Eddie.” He jabbed Stan. Stan looked irritated, but snapped his mouth shut.

“Is he still at the farm?” Eddie asked. Mike looked up at Stan, raising his eyebrows to ask him. Stan pressed his chin into his neck, frowning, Stan’s key _I don’t know_ expression. Mike had put Bill to bed, and then Bev told him to get some rest and she’d keep an eye on the party. He was exhausted enough, physically and emotionally, to listen. He didn’t know what happened to Richie.

“…is it bad if we say we don’t know?” Mike asked cautiously. Eddie, to his surprise, snorted. “You do know that like,” he swallowed. He didn’t know how to phrase it, that they weren’t taking sides, or he wasn’t, but if he theoretically had to wave a flag… it wouldn’t say Tozier on it. “No one’s…” Stan shot him a warning look, “happy?” Stan nodded, “with him.”

“I mean it’s.” Eddie stopped again. The boy could tell them his opinion on what a random celebrity perfume for three hours, and now that they desperately wanted him to talk, he was radio silent. “It’ll. Yeah.” He finally settled. “I do.”

“Okay.” And that was seemingly that.

Mike and Stan managed to traverse downstairs twenty minutes later. They stopped at the tip of the stairs. Mike stopped. He could only blink at the state of his living room, his breath actually seemingly knocked out of him a little bit. Stan bumped into the back of him, and then stood on his toes to see over his shoulder. Stan whistled through his teeth, a sweet, low tune.

“Wow,” Stan exhaled.

It was spotless. The surfaces were sparkling from being wiped, the carpets vacuumed and the hardwood free from the tracked mud of the night before.

Mike stumbled down the steps in a stupor. Stan left the scene to check out the kitchen. There was one couple left that he didn’t know, curled up in an armchair. But the person dozing on the couch he knew very well. And somehow he always managed to surprise him.

“The same, Mike.” Stan called softly. He strolled leisurely back around the corner. His hands were shoved in his pocket, and he was shaking his head ever so slightly. His eyes landed were Mike’s were.

Richie was thrown over half the couch, mouth opened and asleep on the pillow. There was no evidence it was him, he left no note, he asked for no recognition. In fact, he’d probably be more comfortable if it was never brought up again. He had to physically work out his guilt somehow. Richie was the only person Mike knew that was at all capable of chaotically cleaning things.

Mike leaned on Stan’s shoulder, “what do you think are the odds that, in that string of texts to Eddie, he actually apologized?” He asked him sincerely.  
“Oh, he definitely didn’t.” Stan told him flatly, still shaking his head slightly. “No chance at all.”

“…fuck.”

“yep.”

* * *

 

**Richie 3:12 a.m.**   
**hey eds**   
**you’re the most interesting person I know.**

**Richie 3:36 a.m.**   
**you could read me the back of the cereal box and when you’re done I’d want you to read the nutrition information.**   
**just so you know.**

**Richie 3:39 a.m.**   
**yeah.**

**Richie 3:53 a.m.**   
**just as long as it isn’t count chocula.**   
**he fucked my prom date.**

* * *

 

“My Miss Beverly Marsh,” Stan boasted as she walked up. Her hair was piled on her head in a massive messy bun, and she was wearing a brown skirt with a plain white blouse and green vest. “Look at you.” She did a grandiose spin in her new get-up. It came with the territory of working in the corset shop she had been assigned to. Stan was sitting on the back of a push cart, one elbow looped over his knee. Ben was leaning up against it. His smile towards Bev was _almost_ gross, looking all supportive and sweet.

“I know it’s a downgrade, but-“ She began, already brushing off her skirt a bit.

“You’re beautiful, Bev,” Ben interrupted her earnestly. He wasn’t wrong. Sure, the old costume boasted an almost worryingly thin waist and poised curls. But Bev looked healthy and her smile shone bright. She looked like she could breathe – a wonderful thing. She looked surprised but pleased with Ben’s comment, flushing prettily, even in the insistent heat.

“Did you, uh,” Stan rerouted, because no one was saying much of anything anyway, “did you talk to Richie this weekend?”

She flushed harder, a somewhat aggressive looking peach color tinting her cheeks, “no.” She told him, trying and failing to not sound bitter. “Did you?”

He shook his head fitfully.

Ben hummed sadly.

“Anyway,” she suddenly bristled, standing up straight, fussing with her skirt. She saw something beyond Stan and averted her eyes quickly. “I gotta get to my station, can’t be late on the first day!”

Stan grabbed his phone from his pocket, “it’s ten till 8?” She didn’t even have to be at her spot until 8:30, like the rest of the stand workers. He had driven Bill and Eddie up early that morning, as they were waiting around the Denbroughs, none of them acknowledging that they were waiting to hear from Richie about whether or not he was coming but knowing that’s exactly what they were doing.

“Still!” She already turned away. Stan turned back to see what made her spook like a deer in headlights. It was just Bill, walking towards them. He looked sour, hands in his pockets. Stan put his face in his hands and groaned.

“I know, buddy,” Ben sighed. “I know.”

This was not the summer Stan was expecting their group to fall into shambles.

“And that’s the thing about it-“ Stan rambled, twenties half counted in his hand. It was almost shamefully easy for Patty to prod open the flood gates. She asked him about his weekend, and he answered politely. Then she flat-out asked him why he looked sour and he told her that _‘all of his friends are being fucking dumber than usual and that’s an accomplishment.’_ “She was talking to him. Like. Four days ago. So now we’re back to the cold shoulder? We have enough cold shoulders as it is!”

Patty hummed appreciatively. Her hair was braided into two thick braids, loose curls falling around her face. “You don’t need a single additional chilly limb.” She agreed.

“You’re right!” He realized she just affirmed what he already knew but it still made him feel better, “we don’t!”

“And…” She looked up after jotting down the number of quarters. “Eddie, right?” Stan nodded. “He doesn’t even care Richie was so mean to him?” She asked, chin in her palm. She tucked her pen behind her ear.

“Oh, no,” Stan leaned in, like a gossipy old lady at lunch “that’s gonna emotionally fuck him up for years but he’s not gonna acknowledge that, just like all of the other things in his life that are going to emotionally fuck him up for years.” Pat had done an odd makeup look that day, little flecks of gold glitter haloing her lower eyelashes. She blinked. Stan worried that some might get in her eye, but he didn’t voice it.

“So,” she looked at the ceiling, like her mind was still fitting together the puzzle pieces, “Eddie has a crush on Richie?” She asked bluntly. Which none of the rest of his friends had done aloud in their many, multiple years of friendship. “Is it mutual?” Instead, they all just quietly knew about it and didn’t acknowledge it and let it follow them around like an enormous elephant rain cloud of some sort.

Stan just groaned, because he didn’t even know how to begin answering the first question, let alone the second. “Well, yes and no, because Eddie has this really nice boyfriend, I mean. Patty, the guy's a steal. A homerun. In gay terms. I don't even know what I'm talking about, point is: I don't even know what the point is, actually." He rambled. He felt dumb. He looked up at her, ready for the you are dumb look on her face, like the one that would definitely be on any of his friend's faces if he said that in front of them. 

But she just smiled at him sincerely. "It's okay if you don't know. I was just wondering. The whole thing sounds messy."

He blinked with surprise. "It is," he nodded. "Messy and... confusing." 

She nodded. She tucked some curls behind her ears. They were large ears, protruding out from her head a bit. He had never found ears a particularly attractive thing on anyone before. He was beginning to think he could find anything on her attractive. He felt the need to clarify. "I mean, no one's ever asked me what I think of it all before." He explained, hating that it sounded like such an excuse.

 She looked up at him, eyes wide and dark, "well, maybe they should ask what you think more often." Her mouth was soft, quirked, and despite being in his safe, clean, sane counting room, all he could think about was shoving all of their neatly organized piles off the table so he could kiss her on it. 

Stan realized in that moment that he was quite thoroughly fucked. 

* * *

 

**Mike 12:18**   
**Dumplings for lunch?**

**Stan 12:20 p.m.**   
**Raincheck, I’m gonna get lunch with pat.**   
**We’re still talking**

**Mike 12:20 p.m.**   
**Oh?**

**Stan 12:21 p.m.**   
**Well.**   
**I’m still ranting about this weekend.**   
**Pat’s a good listener.**   
**Plus I just need a break from it for a little bit.**

**Mike 12:22**   
**Got it**   
**Pat sounds like a good dude.**

“Hey, man.” Mike looked at Ben, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Looks like it might just be us for lunch today.”

Ben looked up from his phone, face flushed despite them sitting in the break room, the only airconditioned place on the property other than the offices. “Why am I not surprised?” He dropped his hand to the counter, nervously drumming his fingers. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“Me either, dude.” Mike replied. He dropped his chin into his palm. “Stan told me that Bill said if Rich showed up this morning he was gonna drive him and Eddie in his dad’s car.”

“Is Bill angrier than Eddie?” Ben asked sincerely. His hair was a bit stuck to his cheek, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Bill is louder than Eddie.” Mike answered because that was the best he could do at the moment. He just really didn’t know. “I… don’t know where he’s at right now.” He added. He figured Eddie hadn’t replied to Richie’s texts. It hadn’t been the right time to ask, but Mike did want to know what they said.

They ate in a relative silence. It was a good, comfortable and very much needed quiet. The buzzing of their minds was indefinitely loud enough for the both of them. Mike dutifully filled out some of the paper work he had neglected from the week prior. Ben played tetris on his phone. The peace was good. The break room filled around them, as it was lunch time, but the quiet between the two of them was enough.

“Dude,” a scrawny guy who looked like he was a frequent contributor to some very niche reddit threads, stood up, reaching across a table next to theirs to grab at his other friend. His name was Cody, and he worked in the pirate ship that sold swords with a group of guys who consistently went too hard at everything. “Jill says Tozier is just smoking behind the maze by himself.” Mike looked up, squinting at Ben. Ben had also noticed their friends feature in that discussion, and his nose was slightly curled up as he listened.  
“I’m sure Denbrough or someone is with him,” the kid sounded dejected. “Always is.”

“No, she says he’s alone. Dude, this could your only shot. Just go through the maze and get him from behind.” Cody insisted.

At first, Mike was alarmed. And then he remembered, the entire Faire was not tuned into their shitty friendship drama. The Faire was still in midst their game of Assassin. The one Richie had poured himself into thus far in the summer. He still hadn’t talked to Richie since the weekend, but he was going to pull out his phone to warn him. He’d be long gone by the time the kid got there anyway.

Surprisingly, though, as the guys next to them scrambled to their feet, all twig-thin limbs and acne covered cheeks. Ben stood up. “Dude,” he told them. He held a peaceful hand out, “not today.”

“Uh,” the kid scoffed. Mike should know his name. He thought it might be Jared, or something. “It’s a game. I might only have today.” He unnecessarily pushed Ben’s hand out of the way to walk past. It wasn’t even blocking him.

Mike didn’t know what he was expecting when Ben stepped forward, but it definitely wasn’t for him to grab the back of the kid’s shirt. He grabbed it by the collar, not tugging, but halting. “Don’t be an asshole, not today.” He repeated firmly, eyes set harshly.

“Ach, fuck, dude-“ the guy scrambled back. At first he looked angry, humiliated, ready to fight. His eyes, set with really heavy brows and unfortunately squinty, scanned Ben. Mike had never considered Ben – their Ben, in his button up shirt and khakis, as anyone that could be considered intimidating. He was wrong. “Fine, man. Whatever.” The kid slunk back into his seat.

Ben sat down before even giving his friend a chance to argue. Mike watched him inquisitively, waiting for an answer as to what the _fuck_ that was.

“He’s still an asshole,” Ben replied, telling Mike that his defense of Richie wasn’t a defense of Richie in his entirety. And that he was still mad at him. But, he was right. Not today. Jared, or whoever the fuck his scrawny ass was, could try tomorrow.

Mike sighed, and stabbed his mashed potatoes, “I’m not arguing with you.”

* * *

 

Richie felt like a goddamned idiot. He did most days, but that day it was particularly exasperated. He sat on a run-down bench in a shitty excuse for a park and stared at exactly nothing because parks in Derry were literally shit. There was a path and a few trees and a lot of dying grass.

He and Eddie used to go to that park in sophomore year all the time. It was the only decent place to walk to from school that wasn’t a horribly far walk from their houses. It was closer to Eddie’s than Richie’s, but that was okay, because he had to be home earlier than Richie. They would talk about things. Anything. From their math assignments to their parents, to Eddie rhapsodizing about what death really is for an hour. They would get ice cream at the cramped ice cream stand near-by. If it was a normal day, Richie would get mint chocolate chip. Eddie would get a scoop of cinnamon and a scoop of chocolate, and complain when Richie tried to take any, that “just because you have shit-ass taste in ice cream doesn’t mean I need to be punished GET YOUR DEMON SPAWN SPOON AWAY FROM ME-“ and then they would sit on the bench and look at memes or talk about space or do anything that didn’t involve walking home.

They stopped going when Stan got his car and they didn’t need to walk home anymore. Except for one time in Junior year. They had both gotten vanilla. It was warm out, and it was the day before Prom. They didn’t know it, as they talked about all of the pre-Prom parties they made fun of solely because they weren’t invited to them, and the obnoxious couples pictures on Instagram, but they’d spend almost all of Prom together. Richie, to that day, didn’t know how Senior Year Richie, a mere year later, could remember it, the smoking during love songs and leaving small-scale pranks all around and jumping around during the fast ones, Eddie in his mint green dress shirt, his only rebellion from the norm, and not think it was enough for him.

His bowl of vanilla was melting in his lap, but it didn’t taste good with cigarettes. Nothing tasted great with cigarettes.

He continued to swipe on Tinder, way more picky than he normally was. If her hair was going the wrong way, it was a left. If she wore the wrong color, left. If her bio was slightly too artificial, left.

Truthfully, after Eddie, it was everywhere.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Shane Uhan. Richie hated Shane Uhan. He, only to his friends of course, was relentless in his ridiculous of Shane Uhan. He was two years older than them. He had dumb cropped hair that always stuck up somehow, and he was a football player. He wasn’t the stereotype, rather the opposite. He seemed pretty quiet and reserved, muscular but not assuming. Richie had called him pretentious, called him an idiot, replied to Mike who asked what the hell was up with this guy, as he was the only one who never actually met him, with “I just fucking hate him, he sucks, man.”  
And now, Richie was fairly confident that he just had a crush on Shane Uhan.

Which.

Right.

There were others, he figured. There were multiple Shane Uhans, probably.

What he didn’t know was if there were any other Eddie Kaspbraks. At that point, Richie was almost hoping there hadn’t, and wouldn’t be. He dropped the cup of vanilla on to the bench.

He looked down at a girl with blue highlights, and realized if he was going to do this… gay thing, or partially gay thing, he well. He might as well do it.

He, so quickly he could have blinked an missed it, went into his settings and changed his preferences from show me GIRLS to show me GIRLS and BOYS.

It took a few swipes for a boy to appear, long enough that he had almost forgotten about it. And then, there he was, SEAN, age 20, 5 miles away was staring him in the face. Richie’s heart dropped into his stomach, realizing that he was not only looking at Sean, Sean would be looking at him, and here he was, just putting it out there like this.

He, admittedly, panicked, hands shaking, moving quickly. He locked his phone, his breath returned to him with the clicking sound.

He didn’t just swipe left, or change the setting.

He deleted the app.

He took a deep breath.

Baby steps.


	18. Chapter 18

**richie 8:13 a.m.  
** **hey  
** **so uh  
** **do you know where my one green hoodie is?  
** **with the alligator  
** **i mean i never fucking wear it but.  
** **also.  
** **look at this meme.**

“What the fuck is he wearing?” Bill was sitting on the a picnic table just outside of the entrance to the Faire. Eddie was sitting next to him, already in his little costume with the fluffy hat, yawning and rubbing at his eye.

“Wassit?” He asked, looking up from his phone. He looked exhausted. If it were anyone else but Eddie, Bill would have probably told him he looked like shit. But he had a feeling that wouldn’t go over well with him.

“Look, dude-” Bill didn’t even want to say, “what a fucking douche.” Richie was sauntering in to the Faire, still in his street clothes. He was wearing a pair of grey sweatpants, but fancy ones, ones Bill had never seen before in his life, with oddly fitted legs and a cuff at the bottom, a plain black long-sleeve shirt, and a denim jacket Bill had also never seen before in his life.

The real kicker was his head, black waves poking out from under a bright yellow baseball cap, worn backwards. Bill knew he was already mad at him, which made him prone to get irrationally angry at dumb shit, but he really wanted to throw that hat off a cliff. 

“Who?” Bill didn’t answer, because he saw Eddie’s eyes land on Richie. His eyebrows furrowed, just a little, right in the center of his face, and his eyes scanned down his body, and then up again. 

“What about it?” Eddie turned back to his phone non-chalantly. 

“He looks like a tool.” 

“Because he’s dressed slightly more socially acceptably than normal?” Eddie replied skeptically, frowning at his phone and sending another hasty text. 

“Yeah, l-like-” Bill was tripping over his words already, “h-he, fuck, he’s what? Just gonna ditch us and move on?”

Eddie snorted, still not looking up at Bill, which he found mildly infuriating, “I highly doubt he’s going to do that.” But Eddie didn’t watch Richie clap hands with a few of the guys who worked in the receiving center, wearing their full jumpsuits and looking tired. 

“Well, I t-think he’s an asshole. He b-barely even apologized to you and n-n-now he’s what? Gone just f-f-full ghost? Has he even said anything else to yo-”   
“Hey, Bill.” Eddie interrupted his tirade unsmoothly, “there’s Bev, didn’t you say you wanted to talk with her about something?” He gestured beyond Rich towards the gates, and sure enough, Bev was wandering in, leaning on Mike’s shoulder. They laughed.

Bill’s sour mood had more than Richie to blame, in honesty. Bill didn’t even know what happened, but when he went backstage to whistle a tune with Bev before the show, like they always did, Emily was standing there instead. And from the strange string of texts he got from Mike when he asked about it, he had a feeling he knew about it. And it sucked.

He patted a hand on Eddie’s head as he stood up from the bench, in a way he hoped was consoling and not just odd. When he looked back from ten feet away, Eddie was still as absorbed in his phone as he was when Bill was sitting with him. Bill sighed, but turned back on his path. Mike was watching him approach, and Bill shoved his hands in his pockets and let his eyes dart to Bev. Mike’s hand on her was stronger, like he was keeping her from running. Bill was slightly less peeved with Mike in that moment.

“Hey, guys,”   


“Bill, hey!” She greeted brightly, fakely. “Have you seen Eddie? I wanted to show him this thing,” she held out her phone empathically. Her screen was dark. Her hair was in a braid, waves attempting to burst out of it, succeeding around her face. Bev made it so, so difficult to be mad at her.

“Uh,” Bill looked behind himself, “he’s back there, b-b-but I was thinkin-g-g that we could t-t-talk for a s-s-s-s-” 

“I’ll show it to him,” Mike said, extracting himself from Bev and nodding at Bill. 

Bill looked down at Bev, who looked up at him, blue eyes wide and alarmed and he got that familiar punch in the gut he got when they made eye contact. His plan, his confrontation and rehearsed lines flew out of his head. “Wh-what d-d-did I d-do?” He asked her, wanting to bash his head in as he started to stutter.

She blinked, looking surprised, “you didn’t- I mean, I’m not. I’m sorry.”   


“No, I’m ss-sorry-” Bill spoke over her, reassuring her, because she had that crumple in the corner of her eye that told him she was going to start blaming herself. “For wh-whatever it-”   


“No, Bill, you honestly didn’t do anything, I’m just-” She sighed, seemingly realizing they were going in circles, and she grabbed his arms. He stopped, mouth shutting quickly. 

“Can we just… put it behind us?” She asked, hands tight and warm on his forearms. He just wanted to grab one and hold it, but he knew that wasn’t what she wanted. “All that… stuff. And you know, be friends?”   


His heart sank, “yeah.”   


“Okay. Good.” She patted his arms once before dropping them, fussing with her skirt. “I’ll see you at lunch?” 

“Yeah.” 

There were few moments he could remember wanting something so badly and watching it slip out of his fingers. She brushed her hair behind her ear, dark and full, and smiled at him. “Have a good morning,” she told him, oddly formal as she turned down the corridor that led to her station.

“For what it’s worth,” Stan’s voice came through, and Bill jumped, turning back to see his friend just over his shoulder. He was wearing his business-professional little outfit, rolled up blue shirt and slacks, peach in his hand, covered with a napkin to collect juice. “Her changing jobs really did have nothing to do with you.” Bill thought they should have had a normal greeting, but Stan was never really normal.   


“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Bill sighed, “doesn’t help.”   


Stan took another bite of his peach “didn’t really think it would.”    


* * *

**richie 01:02 p.m.**

**also thank you**

**that sandwich you told me about is so good**

**it’s like god’s apology for asparagus**

**it has bacon i’m in love**

“I don’t know why you’re acting like this is a fucking game, Cheryl.”   


“Well, because- well it is a game, Richie.”   


“Horseradish.” He fake-swore, because he was in polite company, sitting back from the table. He didn’t know why he felt his actual temper swelling, hidden under his little performance. He looked down at his phone. He still didn’t have a response from Eddie. He swallowed, shoving it back into his pocket. Whatever. He just wanted to fucking win. 

Winning assassins wasn’t something to fuck around about. There were people who had done the Faire upwards of ten years and played every time who never cracked the top ten. Richie hadn’t, in his first two games.The furthest any of the losers ever got was Bill getting 32nd their first year playing. And if that year, Richie couldn’t get first, he was sure as hell getting 31st. 

Admittedly, his new team was lacking. 

“Here, kid,” Rosemary, a woman with a too-tight corset and graying hair poorly covered up with red hair dye, set down a mug in front of him. “Fucking relax, Jesus.” 

He had heard that Rosemary and Cheryl had gotten David, last year’s winners, and Robert, a man who had won three times, names in the most recent re-draw, for everyone who had eliminated their targets, and he knew getting them out was imperative. Even if he had to conspire with two aging women. Well, three. Agatha, Aggie as most people called her, was there too, even though she never played the game, she was just along for the ride. And to bring tea. Because she ran the tea shop, where they were currently sitting. It was almost a cottage typed building, garden in the back, a fire in the fireplace, Richie in a big rocking chair. 

Also. Who else was he gonna talk to? Himself? He’d end up in a loony-bin by the times the credits rolled.  

**richie 1:12 p.m.**

**update**

**bacon is burned.**

**richie is sad.**

**that was dumb idek nvm.**

So, do you have a plan?”

Cheryl shrugged, “just like all the other ones, swipe them when they’re not looking,”   


Richie took a swig and holy shit - it was strong. He almost coughed, but just raised his eyebrows as he set it down. He actually had never drank on the job before, but it wasn’t like he was driving heavy machinery. “Not gonna be good enough. Gotta be … sneaky,” he told them, shifting forward so his elbows were on his knees. “These guys know,” he held out a finger “everyone here,” another, “the layout of the grounds better than anyone else, “the game better than anyone else.” The women looked between each other. Agatha adjusted her gray bun, and Cheryl nodded.    


“What have we got?” Rosemary asked, taking a swig of her mug, Richie hoped it was only mead. He had other guesses, though.

“Me.” Richie replied honestly. “I’m gonna figure this shit out,” he told them seriously. Because he was. 

“Would these help?” Aggie opened a small cabinet high above the shelves of various teas and leaves, standing on her little wooden step stool. Inside were a set of seemingly military grade walkie-talkies. Why she had them? He had no idea. But he was elated to see them. 

Richie took a long gulp of the beer Cheryl had given him, “I already love you guys.”

* * *

“Oh my god,” Mike whined, wrapping himself over Eddie’s shoulders at their usual lunch table. Bev sat up, smiling at him, locking her phone she was previously staring at. Mike let his face fall into Eddie’s hair, and he sighed. “I’m already so damn tired.”

“It’s Wednesday,” Ben reminded him. 

“Really, Ben?” Mike replied sarcastically, dumping himself in the chair next to Eddie’s, mouth  hinting at a smile when Eddie consolingly reached out and patted his arm, “I thought it was… Arbor Day.”   


“Arbor Day?” Stan questioned, looking baffled. 

“Why the fuck would it be Arbor Day?” Bill asked, mouth full of sandwich. Stan flicked his elbow. He rolled his eyes, but he swallowed.

Mike pulled an especially sad face, “don’t be mean to me, I’m tired.” Eddie, again, said nothing, but leaned on Mike’s shoulder in almost a sign of solidarity, that he was tired, too. Mike dropped his head on to Eddie’s. “Anything exciting happen today, guys?”

And Bev was wondering if they were going to ignore the big old elephant that was the empty chair at the end of their table, and it seemed they were. She bit her lip. She knew in the almighty Friendship Code, that they were waiting for Richie. That he had to reach out to them first, that’s how it was supposed to go.

But she missed Richie. She didn’t even realize how much they talked until her phone was so quiet the last few days. She tried to fill the void with Stan, but he wasn’t that much of a texter, and nothing could replace their group-chat, which had gone radio-silent. Plus, she and Bill, despite their best efforts, were still awkward. Hell, they might remain awkward. Her heart little crumpled at the idea of their crew falling apart right in front of her eyes. She didn't want to think of that at all.

And there was also the thought of Richie, and, Bev didn’t think she understood him very well at all, but she knew him pretty well, and he didn’t really have other friends. Who was he even hanging out with? Was he just by himself? Because that sucked. 

But what he did to Eddie was worse.

She thought.

She was pretty sure.

She set down her wrap in a huff. “I’m gonna take a smoke break,” she announced to the table, trying not to miss what would have been Richie’s call of “oh captain, my captain,” before he followed her. 

Instead, she walked out to the back of the rec room, where the older guys were smoking and talking by a big brick wall, by herself. She bummed a cig off of some weird guy who only smoked American Spirits and wore an apple watch, and sat down by herself in a steel chair, offering only friendly little waves at those who called out to her. 

And then a hand fell over her shoulder, “give it.”   


And she handed the cigarette over to Mike Hanlon, who had followed her out. Because Mike was glue, that’s what he did. He did looked tired, he looked exhausted, dark circles that were never there suddenly visible, eyes squinting and small in the light. 

“Where do you think he’s hanging out?” Mike asked her, quiet and unassuming. Bev practically sighed with relief.

“I don’t know. He’s gotta eat sometime,” she said. She stood and peered over the wall. “Or now.” Just beyond the wall was the main row of food service, serving everything from pizza to turkey legs. Richie was leaned against the counter of one of the busy stalls, hair in his eyes, clearly in character. It was the way he used to hang out at Eddie’s perogie stand, Bev knew. He had a charming smile on his face, like he was trying to worm his way around the line.

Mike took another drag of the cigarette, and then handed it back to Bev. “I’m gonna go talk to him.” He told her resolutely. 

Even though she knew she couldn’t change his mind, she stood, calling out to him as he hoisted himself over the wall, “Mike, I don’t think that’s a good ide-” His feet hit the ground on the other side, and she knew it was hopeless. Mike, trying to fix everything even if it wasn’t his fault? Was going to happen, she was afraid. 

She groaned, feeling somehow responsible, and reached up to hoist herself over, too. Except, the wall was higher than she thought. Hoisting herself up was going to be annoyingly hard. She could do it, but she didn’t particularly want to. She turned back to the greasy kid with the apple watch, smiled her most charming way possible, and asked “boost me?”   


He did. 

From the top of the wall, she could see an already tense looking Richie and Mike. They were standing in between two of the stands, Richie’s arms crossed, Mike just looking cross. She sighed, and dropped down into the crowds for the lunch rush. Her ankle crackled in rebellion of her move, but she shook it out, wrinkled her nose, and marched onwards to her friends.

“I mean, I’ve been in touch. Or I’ve tried-” Richie sounded defensive, squinting at Mike. Bev never really did could decide if she liked his face better without the glasses or not. He looked good, genuinely, but somehow his face felt… incomplete. She hadn’t seen him up close in like four days. He didn’t even look up at her.    


“Well, not with anyone else,” Mike interrupted that shit real quick. “And you’re in contact with Eddie?”   


“I mean,” he figeted, “I’ve tried- look, it doesn’t matter. It’s me and Eddie, okay?”   


“Well, I know it’s between you and Eddie but I think if you talk about it, it might be-”

“I don’t WANT to talk about it, Mike?” Richie raised his voice, arms flying out incredulously. Mike dodged out of the way, knowing Richie wasn’t trying to hit him, he was just unusally long and underestimated often. His face was going pink with anger. ”Okay?” He asked, loudly and ridiculously. Mike didn’t respond, face steely and cold. “I just want to do what I  _ never  _ do for once. For one goddamned day.” He grabbed his vape out of his pocket and shoved it into his mouth.    


“What’s that?” Mike asked evenly.   


“My job.” And with that, he pulled his vape out of his mouth, and move passed Mike. His eyes darted down to Beverly, and with a crinkle of tenderness in his eyes, he placed a hand on her cheek, swiping his thumb across her cheekbone, as he passed. But he still passed, and he kept walking, crying out “AY, YE LUGABOUTS, BE ON WITH YA! AIN’T GOT 3 CROWS TO WASTE, HAVE YE?” At some unsuspecting, but then laughing, patrons. f

Bev watched him go, in his swaggering character walk, with just the tiniest bit of sympathy. “It’s easier for him sometimes,” she told Mike quietly, honestly. He looked up at her curiously. “To be someone else.” She finished, with the smallest, sad, smile. 

* * *

Eddie was ready to throw his phone against a wall. Or Bill. But he had a feeling his phone would be easier than Bill.

They were sitting in Bill’s room, because of course now the attic was forbidden, unholy territory. He opened and closed his last few texts again and again.

**Mom 3:13 p.m.**

**Please make sure you are home early, today.**

**I have something to show you.**

He didn’t know what that fucking meant, because as far as she was aware he was already done his faggotry. It was the only way he could get her to let him keep his job, was swearing that Noah was someone he met that night and that he maniuplated him into drinking, and then kissed him. It made his stomach turn to tell her that, blatant lie after lie, but when he approached her with the truth she hadn’t even responded, replied with the same frantic cries. He was feeling naseuous even thinking about it. 

He hadn’t told anyone about it. Not yet, anyway. Noah had no idea that he was still closeted to her. Richie… was out. And Bill was annoying him. 

And maybe if things were different for Eddie, maybe if he weren’t walking on eggshells when he so much as stepped into his own house, he’d care a little bit more. He’d be a little bit more like Bill, still furious at Richie for his every move. But Eddie was too… tired for that, honestly. He just didn’t reply to his texts, because he didn’t know what to say.  _ “It’s okay.” _ But how could say that to someone who didn’t manage to apologize? “ _ I know you didn’t mean it,” _ because rationally, Eddie did, but there was still that poking anxious stick in the back of his heart that made him think maybe Richie really  _ was  _ sick of him. That he just wanted his other friends back, not Eddie.  _ “You’re forgiven.” _ ? But was he?   
Eddie knew Bill wanted Richie back, even if he’d never admit it. Eddie had played along the first day, gone with him to one of the weird bits of forest he and Richie would explore. The second he wouldn’t, and the third found them just sitting in Bill’s room, watching The Walking Dead because it was all they could think to do. 

**Richie 5:32 p.m.**

**that movie you like is getting a sequel.**

**want me to get tics opening night?  
**

**you know i can get them from that guy dave who's bro works at the aladdin.**

Eddie was nearly ready to scream. _24_ unanswered texts.  _Apologize_ , you fucking dumbass. It was maybe pathetic, that that was all he wanted. All he wanted was two little words. Unprompted and genuine. He knew, fullhearted-ly, that he shouldn’t have to ask for one. That Richie should just know. Not for the first time, he became angry with himself, _why did you have to fucking pick Richie Tozier??_ He asked his brain angrily. He ignored it, sent a picture of a sheep with a funny hat on to Noah, and set his phone down with a huff.

Bill looked up with amusement, “Noah not texting you back?”   


“No, it’s,” Bill’s face almost lit up with curiousity, “nothing.”

“Was it Richie?” He looked down at Eddie’s phone, “did he text you or something?” He hadn’t yet told Bill that Richie had been in touch with him at all. “God, that asshole, he did didn’t he? What the fuck did he say, let me-”   


Eddie yanked his phone out of Bill’s reach before he could touch it. “Fuck off.”    


Bill’s hand came down on his spacebar to pause the show quickly, moving his laptop off his lap in one quick motion. “What the fuck do you mean ‘fuck off’ I just w-want to see wh-what he said-” The sleeve of his baseball shirt fell down his arm. 

“And I’m telling you to fuck off.” Eddie replied coldly, holding his phone to his chest protectively.

“So you responded?” Bill asked, looking scathing and disappointed. His eyebrows came together, his mouth small. It was one of the first times Eddie could remember Bill looking truly,  _ fully _ , unattractive.

“I didn’t- it doesn’t matter-”   


“Did he even apologize?”   


“What I do and who I text is not any of your-”   


“Because if you replied to him being dumb when he hasn’t even said sorry I’ll be so pissed at you Eddie-”   


“Cool.” Eddie stood on that, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Fine. Whatever.” He grabbed his Faire clothes, that he was taking home for a wash, from the floor. Bill looked stunned that he stood, but closed his mouth, his lips an angry, tight line. 

“ _ Whatever _ is how you’ve been about this entire thing, which is ridiculous because you’re going to let him walk all over you-”   


“I have to go home, Bill.” He told him crossly, slipping his feet into his beat, dirty sneakers quickly. The ones he practically had to pry out of his mother’s hands whenever she saw them, if she could reach them, but he’d keep them until they fell apart because they made him feel normal. 

“I just don’t f-f-fucking get how you d-don’t c-c-care more, Eddie.”   


“I HAVE TO GO HOME,” his voice rised easily, even as he tried to fight it, “SO I CAN KEEP MY MOM FROM SENDING ME TO REPRESSION THERAPY OR SOME SHIT. SHE KNOWS. SHE SAW ME KISS NOAH. WHO I HAVEN’T GOTTEN TO SEE IN FOUR DAYS BECAUSE SHE PROBABLY HAS A POLICE REPORT OUT FOR A WARRANT WITH HIS CAR. SO FORGIVE ME, IF I JUST DON’T GIVE A  _ FUCK  _ ABOUT RICHIE TOZIER AT THE MOMENT-”

Bill blinked. Goddamnit. He had yelled. He fucking hated his temper sometimes. Eddie realized that not only had he yelled, he had just thrown a lot of information at him at once. Bill didn’t take well to being yelled at, he never had, and his face was tighter than it was before, but it was the only way he could get Bill to listen to him at all. “So g-go home, then.”   


“I am.”   


“Fine.” And just as Eddie reached Bill’s bedroom door, he heard it muttered behind him, just loud enough for him to hear it, “go back to the people who use you over and over again.”   


Eddie slammed the door behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys!! next update shuold be coming pretty soon!! thanks for sticking with me i love yall SO SO MCUH i am the thnak you for saving my life meme at those of yall who comment bc YALL SAVE MY LIFE ILY THANKS FOR READING


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> additional warning, there's a moreso graphic depiction of illness in the last scene. idk how to tag it, but be wary if u need to take precaution!

“So,” Mike broke the quiet on an otherwise silent truck ride. Bill had his arms crossed, staring out of his window. “What’s up?”

“Not a lot.” He clicked his tongue, watching the trees fly by them.

Mike wanted to point out that that wasn’t true. Bill was currently sitting in Mike’s truck on the way to the Faire. It was an arrangement that never happened because it, frankly, didn’t make geographic or economical sense, considering Mike had to drive twenty minutes out of his way and Bill would be at the Faire earlier than he needed to be. Now that Bev wasn’t a character, she could catch some extra sleep and ride with Ben. But Bill being in his truck... Mike, actually didn’t know what was going on. All Mike knew was Bill asked him for a ride, so he gave him one.

“...okay.” Mike hummed. “Cool.”

“Can we turn on music now?”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.” Mike countered firmly, ignoring Bill’s tense tone.

“I’m gonna take Georgie to the lake this afternoon.” Bill completely avoided the subject, easing his shoulders and turning to Mike. “Think if I borrowed one, I could get him into a canoe?”

“...I’m assuming by ‘take Georgie to the lake,’” Mike quoted, “you mean ‘kidnap and drag him to the lake kicking and screaming.’” Mike didn’t know why the fuck they were talking about this, but at least they were talking. The heat was seeping into his clothes, he pulled his t-shirt away from his skin. There was no way on that hot-ass day that Georgie Denbrough was going anywhere near a lake of any kind.

“So is that a n-no on the canoe?”

“Bill, why are you in my damn truck?”

Bill groaned, turning away like a petulant five year old.

“I will turn this car around.”

“No you won’t,” Bill scoffed, hugging the backpack on his lap.

“You’re damn right I won’t, because I’ve never been late for work, but you’re gonna tell me why anyway.”

“Me and Eddie got in a fight so I didn’t want to drive in Stan’s car.” Bill mumbled out so fast Mike almost missed it. Luckily, he had learned to translate Bill’s ramblings years ago. “That’s it.”

“Oh,” Mike fell back, “well, Eddie’s not in his car either.” He commented non-chalantly. He realized his mistake quickly. Bill turned bright pink, suspiciously swiping to look at Mike. Bill, more than anything else, hated to feel like he wasn’t in the loop.

“Oh? Who is Stan driving, then?”

Well. No point in prolonging the inevitable, “Richie.”

Bill slammed his hand on the dashboard angrily, “fuck. That traitor.” Mike jumped, swerving out of his set of white lines just a little bit. 

“HEY!” Mike countered, glad there was no one on the road to notice his hiccup from the startle, “don’t hit her, she did nothing to you.”

Bill looked down at the truck. She was old, and beaten, and there may or may not be more trash on the floor of the passenger seat than strictly necessary, but she ran like a champ. “Sorry Betsy.” Betsy didn’t verbally reply, as she was in fact a truck, but the engine continued to rumble, so good enough.

“You need to talk to him,” Mike told him, but Bill interrupted, laughing crassly, loudly.

“BULLSHIT.” He laughed, “he needs to talk to ME. That’s how this works.”

“Uh, no.” Mike shut down. “He needs to talk to _Eddie_ . That’s the only person he’s done anything to. _You’re_ the one who punched _him_ in the face. That puts the talking in your court, Bill.”

Bill, who seemingly had not looked at it from this angle, sunk down lower in his chair. “...fuck.”

“And I don’t know what the fuck you did to Eddie, but y’all gotta work this shit out, because we’re running out of damn cars out here. Someone’s gonna have to get a vespa soon.” Mike told him sternly, but it was a joke, and thankfully, Bill’s face _finally_ cracked into a smile.

* * *

“Ben,” Stan didn’t touch his shoulder, but passed over it with his hand in a gesture that seemed like he meant to, “I just wanted to let you know that we do, truly, deserve sainthood for putting up with the dumbest people alive and that are living.”

“Alive AND living?” Ben whistled, stuffing his hands into his pockets, “that’s a lot of things.”

“I know,” Stan nodded solemnly. “Two whole things.” They were currently sitting on a picnic table near the large booths of food, watching Richie explain to a circle of people the most ludicrously elaborate Assassin plan anyone had heard of. It involved a horse, a mandolin, and five people. One of those people was Ms. Beverly Marsh. She swore, up and down, to Ben that morning, that it was for proximity sakes. She said that Cheryl had been the one to ask her for the favor. She said it was more of a favor of the shop than Bev personally. He would be madder at her, at her failure to keep from smiling at Richie’s antics, if Stan himself hadn’t cracked down that morning and driven Richie to work. Life at the Faire, life in general, just wasn’t the same without Richie Tozier. He had already gotten an old woman stuff into a Knight’s costume and if that wasn’t a tale for the ages, Ben didn’t know there was one.

“Do you know anything about this plan?” He asked Stan, pulling a clementine from his pocket. Their lunch hour was a mess anyways, Eddie with Mike and Bill nowhere to be found. Nothing better to do than watch Richie make a mess.

“No I don’t-” Stan spotted his clementine, “ooh, surprise citrus. Orange.”

“Clementine.”

Stan nodded, “baby orange.” Ben couldn’t argue with that. He also couldn’t argue with Stan’s pinched fingers, hovering nearby as he unwrapped it. One of the frustrating things about being Stan’s friend was that he was allowed to steal everyone’s food, but no one could take his without losing a finger. It was completely unfair, but likely written on a Stan’s Ten Commandment tablet, that Ben honestly wouldn’t be surprised if Stan actually had stashed somewhere.

“I think,” Stan delicately selected a slice of his clementine, “the plan is for someone to steal Rob’s horse,” Rob had one, Ben thought, because his role in the play was the Captain of the Guard. "And he won’t do anything about it, because he’s an old man who doesn’t care,” fair, “ and to do it somewhere near Bev’s shop so they’re supposed to keep him there. Where he'll get out of costume, because sweaty." It was a phenomenally hot day. The hair on the back of Ben's neck was grossly sticking to him. "And then Cheryl is going to dress as one of the guards, return the horse to him, and knick him on the way down, when he helps her off the horse. Which, on a loophole technicality: doesn't count as being in costume for her because it's not her costume, so the play is valid." 

“That’s completely over-complicated.”

“I think it’s gonna work.”

“Oh, so do I.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not stupid.” They watched as the crowd broke up into laughs. Everyone but a stubborn Beverly, which meant it must have been at something Richie said. Ben frowned. He hated seeing the terse look on her face. It was more and more present in the last few weeks.

“She looks glum.” He told Stan sadly. He sighed.

“Good word for it. Yeah.” Stan crossed her arms. “I don’t want to tell her talking to Rich is valid, because I’m not sure if it is. Not that I’m trying to be an enormous hypocrite here.”

Ben shrugged, “he needed a ride.”

“I know,” Stan hummed. Ben could tell he still felt bad. “I asked Eddie beforehand. He said he’d ride with you, and that he didn’t care. And I actually sort of believe him.”

“He seemed...okay? This morning?” Ben thought back. He was quiet, but he was probably just tired. The Faire was pretty damn early. “I don’t know. He’s been weird all week.” Ben told him quietly.

Stan grimaced, “it sounds like Eddie.”

“Sure does.”

“Can you drive Richie home this afternoon?” Stan asked, looking down at Ben. Ben frowned, surprised, but nodded. “I’ll take Bev. I need the extra drive back to the suburbs, anyway. I just want to talk to Eddie.”

“Yeah,” Ben exhaled, wondering why he hadn’t just talked to Eddie in the first place, “sure, that’s fine. Should I talk to Rich?”

“You can… try?” Stan shrugged, standing up, “all I got out of him was odd impressions of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and the creepy live action Michael Bay version too, so. Maybe you’ll have better luck?”

Ben doubted it, but he nodded anyway. “Maybe.”

Stan knocked on the wood of the table, saluting Ben before walking back towards the office.

Ben threw the last of his clementine in his mouth, before calling out to Stan, “where ya’ goin’?”

“To ask out a girl, hopefully!” He replied over his shoulder.

“What? Why didn’t you tell any of us?”

“Who the fuck in this club should I ask for relationship advice?” Stan called back, further away.

“That’s...hurtful but true.” Ben yelled. He wasn’t even sure if Stan could hear him. And there was baby orange juice all over his hands, great.

* * *

The only problem is Stan seemingly had no idea how exactly to go about asking a girl on a date. It seemed simple. It seemed as if all you had to do was say ‘hey, wanna go on a date?’ but his anxiety about it was pretty sure that was Satan talking, and would lead to his ultimate humiliation and him having to move to New York early.

He didn’t even know if he could consider Patty full single. It had never come up! What if she was bethrothed, or something!

He found himself uncharacteristically nervous, counting room oddly quiet that day. She looked extra cute, and everything, looking tired in a big hoodie and leggings. Stan didn’t mind if a girl wanted to dress up, and he always thought she looked good, but seeing a girl in a soft looking clothes just made him want to put his hands on her.

Leggings...helped.

“So, my friend…. Mike,” he began, wincing at that he couldn’t scramble to make up a friend, he had to use the one he had, “and his girlfriend,” _what, what are you doing Stan, oh my god,_ “they’re arguing all the time.”

“Oh?” Patty asked, tucking her pen behind her ear, into the fluffy bed of curls. “You haven’t mentioned her.”

“She lives in Utah,” _WHAT, STAN? WHAT?_ “But, yeah. She, like, doesn’t think he should grow a beard. And he wants to…” he doesn’t remember Middle school all that well, but he’s willing to bet money that he has never in his life sounded that awkward.

Patty squints at him, revealing the lavender sparkle on her eyelids. “I told him that he should like. Respect what she thinks.”

Patty raised an eyebrow.

Was that wrong?

“But also do his own thing... because significant others don’t, like, control each other. Man. That stuff’s crazy.” _Abort abort abort._ “Girlfriends are and stuff. Not that I’m saying girls are crazy! Do you have one?”

Patty’s eyebrows scrunched up “... a girlfriend?”

“Like, a-”

 _Congrats, Stan, you absolute fuck up._  He fucked up that one so bad that his inner monologue didn’t even know where to begin on chastising him for it. You’re just a complete idiot. He meant, not the level of idiocy where he found her another boyfriend and set them up and then waited weeks to get angry about it, but it honestly felt close. Fucking moron.

“...Stanley?”

“I’m sorry, what?” He looked up, realizing he hadn’t even been paying attention to what he said he was so angry at himself internally.

“I don’t have a boyfriend, Stanley.” She told him with a little smile. Hell, Stan could comfortably call it a smirk.

“Me either,” he blurted out.

“Cool,” she nodded.

“Cool.” He repeated.

And she, even with her little smirk, slid her headphones in. And he was left to stew, wondering if he had completely fucked it up. She hadn’t done that in a while. At least she knew he was single. Or. Didn’t have a boyfriend. At the bare minimum, he had gotten that out there.

He was slow counting, and he knew he couldn’t properly blame her for that but how could he help it when she was sitting there? Being beautiful? Occasionally bobbing her head along to whatever she was listening to? It was very distracting. She was working quickly, scribbling more often than usual, dancing a little in her chair. He could just say something again, before they left. Something...smoother. Maybe “do you want to go out with me?”

But when the end of the day came, she stood, her sweater falling off her shoulder and she smiled and he was just a little bit breathless and all that came out was “have a good Thursday.” And she left.

And he put his head on the desk and sighed. He wallowed for a few seconds, before remembering he had to go get Eddie, and so he reached to her side of the table to collect the plastic bags of quarters.

Under it, was a plain piece of paper. It appeared to have rubbings of various coins on it, dashes in between them. He squinted at it, perplexed. There was exactly 9 dashes in between the sets.

And then he noticed, in the smallest corner, written tidily, was the tiniest “call me” he had ever seen in his life.

And of course, she required math as a prerequisite for her number.

He thought he might just be, insanely, the smallest bit in love with her already.

* * *

Eddie didn’t know how much longer he could come home every day more exhausted than he was the day before. He missed his friends. He missed his friends making fun of him, not treating him like glass that was going to break. He missed Richie. He missed Noah. He missed not feeling like he had emotionally gotten the shit kicked out of him, like he had to hold his breath walking into his own home.

And he knew Stan had meant well, with his questions on the way home. He knew Stan knew him. Ordinarily, all it took was gentle prodding and his feelings came pouring out. He didn’t want them to. He didn’t want to dedicate any more time to the life he was living with his mother than absolutely necessary. He felt more closeted, more shoved into himself and repressed, than he had in years.

**noah 5:14 p.m.**   
**facetime tonight?**   
**xxxx**

**eddie 5:14 p.m.**   
**she would hear it.**

**noah 5:15 p.m.**   
**i understand.**   
**would you consider playing hookie at work tomorrow?**

**eddie 5:16 p.m.**   
**?**

**noah 5:16 p.m.**   
**i’d meet you at the gates.**   
**if you thought you could get away.**   
**i’ll take you anywhere you like.**   
**aquarium? movies?**   
**if you thought you could slip away, that is.**   
**i heard you’re in with a manager ;)**   
**and i … happen to know a guy.**

Eddie smiled at his phone, and thought maybe he could survive home with people like Stan and Noah around him. He texted back a yes, and gave Stan a sincere thank you. He didn’t know how to apologize for not giving Stan the answers he clearly wanted, but Stan shook his head before he could even start, waving him off. “Have a good night, Eds-die.” Stan corrected himself mid-word. Eddie smiled weakly, waving as he shut the door.

“Edward,” his mother called him from the dining room the second she heard the door shut, “Come here, please. I have something to show you.” The last something to show you was a pamphlet from the church’s, which they hadn’t attended in five years, boys and men’s group. He could only have so much faith in this something-to-show-you.

He came in, and she was surprisingly standing, and leaning over a pile of papers on their little bar table. Their dining room wasn’t usable, covered in old shopping bags and papers and unassorted clutter.

“Take a seat, Eddiebear.” She told him, leaning heavily on her cane. “I just wanted to show you something.” She picked up a few of the pages in front of her, and hobbled over to where Eddie had sat, amongst the clutter of their home. “Now I know we’ve had a conversation about this already, but I was on the internet today-” that was never a good sign, “and I just wanted to show you these.”

She set down pages in front of him. “Now, I know that man took advantage of you in your time of enhanced weakness but these are just simply so you become more cautious, so you know the dangers that were out there-”

Eddie thought he actually might vomit. His mother was leaning over him, breasts resting on his shoulder, body odor smell heavy and undeterred by the scent of the peach hand sanitizer on her hands. She placed in front of him photos of genitalia, male to be exact, absolutely covered in warts. In some cases, large, pulsing, near to the point of bursting.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and his new thought was simply to get out of there as quickly as possible. He snapped his eyes shut, “yes, Mommy.”

“And see,” she laid out other pictures. Men, in hospital beds, emaciated and covered in the worst rashes he had ever seen. He gagged. “These men contracted HIV/AIDS. It’s not a thing from the past. It’s still out there, even now.”

Eddie truly could not say anything without crying. He nodded his head, and kept his mouth clamped shut. He knew it was still out there. He had taken sex ed.

“Men like… that man who you were with. Well,” she soothed her hands over his shoulders, “I don’t need to tell you, sweetie. You know.” She dropped a kiss into the center of his head. “Warts on the genitals, on the esophagus. It still kills, you know.” She showed him another phone. Inflamed testicles. “It could have been you, Eddiebear. You know I could never let that happen to you.”

Eddie shut his eyes, feeling his throat tighten painfully. “I’m quite tired after work, Mommy.” He said tightly, “I think I’ll go to bed, now.”

She had to rest her weight on his shoulder, pressing him painfully into the chair. “Okay. I’ll be down here. Can I expect you for dinner?” He still couldn’t move, his weight on her was too much. If he stood now, he’d knock her flat on his back. He didn’t have a choice other than yes, and he knew that, but she was still going to make him say it.

“Yes.”

She relented on his weight grabbing her cane. “Help Mommy to her chair.” She told him, holding out her arm for him to take.

He did.

He walked coldly, calmly up the steps to his room. He shut his door, and laid down on his bed. He shut his eyes, and the images came back to him. The inflamed bodies, the painful boils. He flung his eyes open, staring at his ceiling. Every time he so much as blinked, it came zipping back.

Then, and only then, he started to cry. He slipped out of his bed, on to the floor, and put his face in his hands, and cried into them.

He felt like an idiot. He thought about the times he had Noah's cum on him, the fact they hadn’t talked about STDs, let alone HIV. He looked back at his bed, looking at his sheets, wondering if they carried disease. He was looking back at the times he had with Noah that he cherished, that he considered precious because he felt right and whole and pure in them, with stinging, disgusted paranoia. She was still managed to worm her hands on to him, in between him and the only good thing he had at the moment, even without being there. He couldn’t tell Noah. He’d have to tell him everything about his mom, and he wasn’t ready to do that. And he didn’t want to talk to Bill, who didn’t even know the full extent of it either. The only one who knew _everything_ about his mom, the only person he wanted to talk to at all right now, was Richie. Which he couldn’t do, because he was so outstandingly boring that no one could tolerate it for more than fifteen minutes.

Eddie knew he’d never be able to sneak out the way he had in the past, through his front door after his mother was asleep. But he couldn’t stay in his house, where he felt cold and disgusting and wrong. Almost numbly, tears slipping down his face, he stood up, barely registering his feet on the ground, and walked to his window. He opened his window, calculated the story’s long drop. If he hung by his arms, it’d only be about four feet to the ground after.

He landed with a buckle of his knees, his ankles crying out in protest. He didn't really notice it, falling to the ground, catching himself with one arm to the ground before his face smacked into it. He didn't care about that sort of pain anymore. It was almost fresh, a relief from the stinging inside. That sort of pain he could take. 

He didn’t even know where he was going, tears still running, disgustingly mixing with the snot on his face to create a truly awful concoction. He hopped his neighbor’s fence, narrowly avoiding a splinter on the rough wood of the fence between them. His feet landed in much shorter grass. Their lawn hadn't been cut in years. He walkedthrough their yard to the street behind them. He stood there, lost, face stinging with tears, and his heart stinging harder.

He barely even looked as he pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“‘Yello?”

“Stan-” his voice cracked painfully, barely able to get the words out. “Can you-”

“Send me your location.”

And Eddie was greeted with the dial tone.

He did as he was told, and then sat down, smack-down on the pavement, in the middle of the sidewalk. Stan’s car pulled up in a matter of minutes. Maybe seconds. Eddie didn’t know, he didn’t look at his phone, look at anything, but try and keep his eyes open and stare at the little patch of grass in front of him.

“Taxi for Eddie Kasp-” maybe Stan took longer than he thought, maybe he expected Eddie to be more composed when he got there. But he looked up at Stan as he was, with a blotchy face and tears that kept spilling over. Stan’s eyes went wide, and at first, Eddie wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but he doesn’t think it was for Stan to put his car into park, and get out quickly. Eddie pushed his palms on the ground, wincing at the rough pavement digging into his hands, and stood to greet his friend.

Stan wasn’t an affectionate person. He thought he could count the number of times Stan had been explicitly affectionate on one hand. But Stan reached down, and swooped Eddie into a hug that crushed his ribs and mushed his face into Stan’s chest.

“Can I stay at your place tonight?” He asked his chest.

“Stay at my place this weekend.” Stan corrected him. Eddie sniffed, trying to let Stan know that he was, in fact, getting snot on his shirt. Stan’s arms tightened.

“I’m sorry, Stan,” he spoke into his shoulder, tears muddling his eyes and mashed his words into a nonsensical goo, “I’m trying to handle it. I was trying to deal with it on my own.” Stan smelled like Irish Spring and his clean car and a bit of aftershave and the soup his mom made for dinner. Stan hushed him gently, and Eddie shut his eyes, images flashing back, crying into his shoulder.

And when Stan’s hand came up to gently cup the back of Eddie’s head, ring finger and pinky just resting on Eddie’s neck, it was the first hug he could remember having that didn’t feel like a brother’s, or a lover’s, or a really, _really_ good friend's. It felt like a father’s hug, warm and unconditional, there to hold him as long as he needed to be held.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i... am sorry ??? :(


	20. Chapter 20

**(new groupchat: bill, bev, ben, stan, mike)**  
**bill 8:53 a.m.**  
**alright guys.**  
**we need everyone on deck here.**  
**we can return to the drama as previously scheduled in like a week or whatever y’all wanna do but right now we have to focus on eddie. he needs us.**  
**i’m with him at stan’s right now.**

Bev snorted, outright, flat-out, snorted at Bill’s text. She was in Ben’s passenger seat in his comfortable, sensible sedan, windows down. Her hair was braided away from her face tediously, but the baby hairs were still whipping into her eyes sometimes because they had the windows down.

“What?” Ben asked, keeping a careful eye on his blindspot as he merged on to the highway. They were on their way in a roundabout direction to the Faire, because they had to pick up Richie.

“Bill’s lecturing us to stop the drama.” She laughed, scratching her chipped blue nail-polished fingers on her bracelet-covered wrist. “In a groupchat that, of course, doesn’t include Rich.” It was pretty hypocritical coming from Bill, but she was surprised at how Ben’s face whipped towards her angrily.

“He’s what?” Ben asked for clarification, even though they both knew he heard her just fine. Bev’s phone dinged.

She read out Bill’s original text to Ben. She rolled her eyes. “Of course, I agree. You know, with stopping the drama for Eddie’s sake. Stan texted me he came over, but he didn’t mention why. Something’s gotta be wrong. Just this...coming from Bill… Mike says he agrees,” she noted, looking down at her phone. “I’m surprised he didn’t tell him to shove his speech up his ass.”

“Mike wants what’s best for Eddie.” Ben replied, eyes looking cloudy and guarded.

“We all do,” Bev insisted. Ben didn’t look like he was so sure about that.

“Tell Bill that, then.” Ben replied after a cold moment. “Tell him he has to talk to Richie.” Bev would have laughed if Ben’s expression weren’t so serious.

“What?” He asked at her silence. “I’m serious.”

“I know you are,” she told him, sitting back in her seat awkwardly, “but I’m not doing that.”

“Why?” He looked over at her quickly, before diverting right back to the road. He was never quite as meticulous as Stan, but he was a careful driver. His hair was getting long, it rustled in the wind from the windows. She didn’t reply out loud. She wasn’t going to do it. She wasn’t going to be the one that insisted they get Richie back, even if she very well knew that everyone else knew they weren’t the same without him. Didn’t matter. Not with the history between her, Bill and Richie. No way. “Bev, you know you’re the only one he’ll listen to-” she shook her head. “Fine. Fuck it,” he grabbed his phone from the empty cup holder and handed it to him. “Call him. I’ll do it.”

“Ben,” she objected with surprise, “you know he’s just gonna get mad-” she hated it when the guys fought at all. Let alone in front of her. The angry tones, the agressive faces - it only brought back painful memories.

“Do it, Bev.” Ben’s face was hard set. She knew it was a hopeless argument waiting to happen, so she just dialed, set the phone to speaker, and held it up to Ben’s level.

“Morning?” Bill sounded confused. Probably because they didn’t call each other. The only ones who really talked on the phone were her, Stan and Mike. They had mastered the conference call.

“Bill. Are you with Eddie?” Ben’s voice was tight. He was irritated.

“Uh. Not really- what’s up?”

“You need to talk to Richie.”

“Ben, I-”

“No. No, Bill, no one wants to hear it-” Bev swallowed. “You have to talk to him. We’ve reached that point.”

“Ben, did you read my text? We need to stop the drama. This is not about my fight with Rich-”

“Then fucking STOP IT!" She didn't really expect the swearing, especially from Ben. "This IS about YOUR fight, and you KNOW THAT!” Ben raised his voice hotly, angrily looking at the phone as if it were Bill himself. Bev flinched. SHe couldn’t help it. It was reflex. His eyes darted to her, and for a moment, a flash of regret slipped past his eyes.

“We don’t need him around to be good to Eddie-” Bill defended again.

“Bill,” Bev spoke up. “That’s not what he’s saying.” She told him softly, pulling the phone towards himself. Ben rolled up the windows, probably so Bill could hear her more easily. “You know they haven’t spoken yet because of you.”  
  
“Well, I- just.”  
  
“And Eddie misses him, but Richie’s not gonna do shit until you talk to him-” she dissected easily. They could all see it. Of course Eddie missed Richie. They were… them. That was her best description of it.

“But I just-”  
  
“This sucks for all of us, but _especially_ Eddie. If you really care about making Eddie’s life easier, fixing the whole group, you’ll talk to Richie when we get to the Faire today.” She told him flatly. She looked up and realized Ben was watching her. He nodded curtly, mouth pressed together. He looked almost proud.

“Alright. I’ll talk to him. But only-” he dropped off. “I’ll talk to him when you g-guys get here.” Bev knew he was going to say “but only for” but she honestly wouldn’t be able to say if he was going to say “but only for Eddie,” or “but only for you.”

“Okay. We’ll see you, then.” She looked to Ben, who nodded.

“See you Bill.” He added.

“Bye, guys.”

The dial tone hung in between her and Ben in the very quiet car. She waited for him to turn on the music, roll down the windows, and everything would return to normal. His hands stayed tense on the steering wheel, his jaw tight. “Unbelievable.” He muttered, and Bev thought that maybe Ben had the same idea about Bill’s unfinished statement that she did.

* * *

 Mike Hanlon loved animals. He just loved them.

There was something so incredibly pure about them. Sure, they had generally less developed brains, but they their psychology could be so beautifully simmered down to instinct. Their behavior chalked up to instinct and survival. Their malintent understood. For whatever reason it may have: reproduction, survival, protection.

But they stayed intelligent. They were loving to their families, the cattle in their fields ushering their calves into the shelter when the rain came. They were trusting of those who deserved it.

He didn’t know how he came to deserve it, holding Haggis in his hands, belly exposed, dead asleep in his palm. He was sitting cross-legged in the back of his truck for a moment. He thought maybe, for a second, that animals were just more deserving of their understanding than humans. It was hard not to trust Haggis as he trusted him. But, he reconsidered, watching his group of friends from a distance, watching Bill and Richie talk _(a conversation Stan would later sum up to be a “truce?” “truce.” and absolutely nothing else in a text to Mike.)_ that maybe humans didn’t take the time to try and understand each other enough. That maybe, if they chalked up more of their decisions to instincts: protection, reproduction, survival, things would be more… peaceful. Maybe they’d trust, love, each other a little bit more.

He set Haggis down into the hay, brushing his hands off on his pants. He just wanted to bring him to work that day. They could hang out during lunch. Hedgehogs were little and strange, but if you were patient and undemanding, they revealed little personalities over time.

He didn’t know what got him so attached to the little guy. Maybe it was just the stress of the summer. Mike tended to love all animals, and try not to get too attached to any one. The last time he had done that was his dog, Mr. Chips. He had gotten him at two years old, or the family did, but it was inevitable, his dad would tell him later. Mr. Chips chose him. He was his person. They were inseparable for twelve long years for a big ol’ mutt. He died in May of his freshman year, about 20 months after the death of his Father. He felt like the last living piece of him Mike had. And he was gone. Mike cried for three days.

His Aunt had suggested he work for her cousin at the Faire to distract him, that’s how he got there. He thought, as he shut the truck hitch, that that’s how they all got there, because Richie wouldn’t have a job without Mike and they wouldn’t be a group without Richie.

And his dad was still there. Mike still felt him, him and his mom, over him, in him, every day.

So, maybe, he thought with one last look to Haggis, still peacefully asleep amid the hay, that something’s were just meant to be.

And maybe, he thought, watching as Richie, slowly and self-consciously, approached Eddie, it’s okay, instincts or otherwise, to love things. To want to understand them.

He clapped hands with Stan, sitting on the other side of the bench Eddie was sat on, and pretended not to listen, but didn’t talk, because they were, obviously.

He pulled his phone out, but let his eyes dart up to watch.

Eddie stood as Richie approached, each looking as nervous as the other.

“Hey, Eds- Eddie.” Richie caught himself quickly. His hair was sort of combed and wet-looking. He was wearing plain jeans and a black t-shirt, glasses swooped low on his nose. “I’m, uh-”

“Don’t, Rich.” Eddie shut him down quickly. “I don’t want to talk about it-”

Mike felt almost as hurt as Richie looked that Eddie wasn’t even going to let him apologize. He didn’t look mad, just ready to sweep the entire thing under a metaphorical rug that probably held a lot of Eddie’s feelings about a lot of things. “But I really shouldn’t-

“It’s okay,” Eddie insisted, looking gentle and sincere. His hands flinched towards Richie, but fell. “I don’t want to spend any more time on it than we already have,” he smiled weakly.

Richie looked ready to argue, but surprisingly, he didn’t. “If that’s what you want.” He agreed, seeming able to do anything, absolutely anything, that would make Eddie happy.

“It is.”

“Alright.” The moment died. They began to just stare at each other. Mike looked at Stan. Stan was peeking up from his phone, clearly thinking over if this was their cue to start talking, to full delve the group back into normality and slam-dunk the entire past week into obscurity. “Can I,” surprisingly, the nervous, quiet, voice came uncharacteristically from Richie “hug you?”  

Eddie did not reply, just opened his arm and tucked himself into Richie. Mike almost cooed in his head, as Richie’s face finally, finally, went lax, relaxed and content, and folded his arms over Eddie’s shoulders.

“Rich.” Eddie interrupted flatly. He looked like he was pulling back, but Richie held on tight.

“Yeah?”

“Why are you damp?”

“Oh, me and my dad went to the gym this morning.” Stan snorted. Eddie tried to struggle away from him.

“You - what?” The gym wasn’t a hang-out spot for Richie. Ever. He _really_ must have been bored.

“I had to do something to occupy my energy.”

“Ew-” Eddie replied shortly, still trying to wiggle his way out of Richie’s grasp. Richie only seemed to hold tighter, rubbing his hand on Eddie’s shoulder.

“Shh, no, let me get some of your soap on me-”

“That’s not how soap works you fucking psycho-” Richie grinned to himself, tucking his face into Eddie’s hair. It almost seemed like he just did it to conceal the smile from Mike and Stan. Mike smiled at Stan. Stan rolled his eyes. “Did you just _sniff_ my _hair_?” Eddie demanded incredulously.

“Don’t make it weird.”

“ _I’M_ MAKING IT WEIRD?”

And there it was, folks: they were back to the way it was before. Almost completely, the past either forgotten or desperately ignored.

Which, Mike thought as he watched Richie bury his face in Eddie’s hair one more time before finally letting the poor kid go, might be a damn shame. 

* * *

 

“ONE CRACKER, STAN.”

“You may have exactly none of these crackers until you can properly define jaundice,” Stan replied curtly, shifting away from Eddie on his worn couch.

There was a reason Stan’s house was not the hang out for the club. It was small, and worn-in. It wasn't like Eddie's house, covered in piles and nonsense, not that there weren't greater reasons they never hung out at Eddie's. Stan's house was neat, just cramped with the little furniture they could fit in, walls seemingly covered in photo frames of Stan's vast family. Their tv was small, and not a flat-screen, but perfectly functional, their coffee table having little mementos from various weddings and holidays past. Stan happened to like it the way it was, but it was lacking on enough space for seven teenagers.

“You leave my poor Eddie alone, Stanny,” his mother, Andrea, a very tiny, little (under 5' 2") Jewish shrew yelled from the kitchen. Stan thought he could reach out and touch, they’re close enough to it. “And share your crackers!” He could see her, in her dirty, floral apron, with her curls clipped out of her face.

“Not,” Stan shoved a cracker into his mouth to prove a point, not because he particularly wanted it, “until he agrees to stop using words he doesn’t know the definition of.”

“Stan,” Eddie whined, attempting to climb on him, like he was Richie or something- “just give me a cracker.

“Even just spell it,” Stan sat back defensively.

“ _Go fuck yourself_ ,” Eddie mouthed at him, mindful of his mother, Andrea, in the other room, who would not approve of a swear, “how bout I spell that?”

“Not similar to jaundice at all, -9 for lack of effort.”

There was a loud knock on the door, and both of them sighed in relief. They loved each other. Stan knew that, and he knew Eddie knew that, too. But they were not friends that were suited to spending every waking moment together. Ben politely offered his place to Eddie that night, and Eddie lacked any hesitation in taking it. Stan couldn’t even pretend to be surprised. His house didn’t even really have the room to accommodate him. All it had was his mother, and she was a treasure, as she made yet another elaborate snack for the company arriving.

Surprisingly, Ben was not the only one on the other side of the door. Standing just over his shoulder was Bev, her smile, as beautiful as ever, reserved.

“Hey, Eddie,” Ben ruffled his hair as he walked past, but he kept walking, and Stan knew why-

“BEN!” His mother enthused from the kitchen, “you better be on your way to see me!”

“Of course, Mrs. Uris-” Ben grinned at the floor at her enthusiasm, swinging around the opening to their cramped kitchen, “hello~.” Ben was his mother’s favorite of Stan’s friends. She was always excited to see him.

“Benny, how many timintentions es do I have to tell you to call me Andrea-”

“Hey, Eddie,” Bev paused in his door way, smiling as Stan was at the conversation in the kitchen. Stan tried to gesture for her to enter, but she waved him off. “I was wondering if you wanted to maybe take a walk with me?”

Stan looked down at Eddie. He wasn’t expecting this encounter, and he didn’t think Eddie was either. He didn’t know what Bev’s intentions were. He thought back to Eddie’s rant in the car that morning with Bill, “so long as you guys are going to make groupchats and phonecalls to talk about me,” he fussed, “please tell everyone to quit treating me like I’m made of glass. I just want everything to be normal. I want to hang out with my friends. I get enough weirdness at home.”

“Uh,” Eddie stood, which was enough of an answer itself. He slipped into his shoes by the door. “Sure! What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Bev shrugged. “I just wanted to talk. Y’know,” she shrugged, still looking apprehensive, “like old times.”

Bev nor Eddie mentioned it often, but the two were inseparable for about a month before Bev’s full induction into the lot of them. Bev told him she had told Eddie about things she hadn’t told Stan. Stan never found out what really went wrong, or if they just grew apart, or what. Eddie’s eyes seemed to dawn with recognition and understanding, and he nodded, patting Stan’s shoulder as he passed. Stan shut the door behind them.

“STANNY-” his mother yelled from the kitchen, “GO GET BEN A GINGER ALE.” He groaned, and he could picture Ben’s smug face, “YOUR FRIENDS ARE COMING BACK FOR SHABBAT, RIGHT?” 

* * *

 

“Well,” Bill commented, tossing a hackee sack he found under his bed back up into the air and catching it again, “he did apologize to Noah, or Eddie thinks he did, before he picked up Eddie, so that’s something, right?” He was still undeniably pissed at Richie. It seemed mutual. He could play civility for now. They hadn’t said much when Bill approached him that’s morning, but Bill didn’t have anything else to say. He wasn’t gonna act like he was unjustified, or that Richie wasn’t a complete ass. He’d be civil in their group settings, like the lunch they puttered through that day, but he wasn’t gonna see that jerk any more often than he had to. The silver lining of the entire thing was definitely that the effort he wasn't gonna put into his friendship with Rich, he could invest in hanging out with his little brother. Or trying to.

Georgie had been distant from him for the last few years, he could acknowledge that. But he still loved him, and a little bit of effort could bridge the gap between them. Bill knew it could. 

Georgie didn’t seem to be listening, scrolling through his phone on his bed. Bill knew he was, though. He just wished he could get him to tell him a little bit about his friends, or interests or whatever. Georgie was sealed shut, as far as he could tell. Bill thought maybe if he shared with him about his life, he'd return it eventually. 

Bill was sitting in his disc chair, it was fuzzy and white. He helped make it with Ben, when Georgie whined and cried because his parents wouldn't buy him the one he actually wanted from Urban Outfitters. Of course, Georgie didn’t care now, but he kept the chair. “Whatever. Like, to be honest Georgiiiii-orge.” He winced, “like, I just stopped giving a damn so long ago. Like, I can’t make decisions f-for Eddie, yanow?” Georgie didn’t reply. “Just gotta like. Let it b-be."

Georgie nodded tightly. So he _was_ listening. "Anyway. How's David?"

"He's fine."

"Are you guys still hanging out?"

"Yeah."

"Cool. What's he like? Or into, whatever?"

"The same stuff I am."

"Cool."

"Yeah."

It was quiet for a few minutes. Both brothers fiddled with their phones. Bill ran over his mind for possible conversation topics. Or something to do. Georgie hadn't wanted to go out to any of the nature spots Bill tried that week, but maybe if he suggested something indoors, he'd be more receptive."D’ya wanna go to the library on 8th tonight?" It was old and nearly decrepit, due to the other, bigger library in town. The third floor, moreso the attic, was of intrigue to Bill, though. All sorts of old, ragged books on the supernatural. "I actually heard a story that the third floor has this floorboard with like all kinds of town records under it. You know, the Mayor from like 1912 to 1924 had this son that-”

“OH MY GOD.” Georgie yelled loudly, suddenly. He practically threw his phone on to his bed. Bill jumped, looking behind him warily. Nothing was behind him but Georgie's open door and the hallway.

“I DON’T CARE. BILLY-” He stood up, walking to Bill’s room across the hall, but still yelling, “I CANNOT FIGURE OUT HOW I CAN MAKE IT ANY MORE CLEAR TO YOU HOW MUCH I DON'T CARE.” Bill, very confused, looked around the corner to see if he could spot his little brother. He was hard to miss, wearing a ridiculous looking green over-sized sweater and little vans. “GET UP!!!” George screamed in Bill’s direction, coming back with his shoes. He lobbed them at Bill. They hit him in the shoulder and clanked to the floor.

“Jesus, okay, where are we going?!” He frantically slid into his shoes, balancing on the hipster, oddly barren little bookshelf by the door. It had a pretentious record player on top that George only used to play albums released in the last ten years. Georgie continued to tug at him as soon as his shoes were on his feet. 

“TO GET YOUR BOYFRIEND BACK,” he practically shoved Bill down the stairs, “I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANYMORE.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had to split this chapter in half for my sanity's sake but me? posting the next half tonight or early tomorrow? bitch i might!


	21. Chapter 21

Bill was pretty sure he had lost his damn mind. Or somebody had to. Because he was standing outside of Richie’s house, on his porch, with Georgie angrily watching him, on Bill’s bike, on the street nearby.

He turns back to fully face his brother, little demon or not, he’s not knocking on Richie’s damn doo-

“Bill Denbrough?!” He hears a familiar, high pitched voice. Maggie Tozier, or Mrs. T as Bill called her for many years, all but sprung out of her bushes. She was a tall, thin, willow-y woman. When Richie initially shot up, they thought he’d take after her, long but delicate and slim. It seemed more and more apparent that he’d take after his dad, large shouldered and soft-tummed.

“Hi, Mrs. T.” He realized he was standing on her porch, creepily, with no explanation. She didn’t show any sign of suspicion, adjusting the large tan sun hat on her head. She was wearing her dirty gardening gloves and jeans with mud worn into the knees. “I w-w-w-as ju-jus-”

“I was wondering when you were gonna come around,” she set down her large garden shears, stepping on to the porch, “and why my son has been home so much. What’s been going on?” She asked, bluntly to the point.

“W-w-well, it-t-t’s, jus-just-” sensing his discomfort, and seeming to hone in on it. She invited - moreso demanded - he come inside.

With her hand firmly planted on his shoulder, the other opening the door, Bill had just enough time to look back to see Georgie’s smug little face saluting him before cycling the other way down the street. Asshole. No more time around Rich for him.

Speak of the devil, Rich was laying flat on his back on his couch. He was tossing a football they hadn’t touched since freshman year into the air. “All I’m saying, Dad, is that I feel like the capabilities of space would most quickly be utilized-”

“All I’m saying, Richard,” his dad interrupted, sitting at his desk, looking seriously irritated. “Is that no one is sending a dolphin to space. I am not an astronaut, you will _never_ be an astronaut, and we have no capabilities of sending a dolphin to space. So I have no idea why you’ve _insisted_ on discussing this for well over an hour-”

“Boys-” Mrs. T interrupted loudly. She practically shoved Bill into her living room. “Look who I found.”

“Bill!” Wentworth looked up, seeming to be perhaps the most optimistic Bill could remember him ever being. “Please tell me you’re taking him back.”

“ _Dad-_ ” 

“Sorry, hah-” Bill laughed nervously. He adjusted his shirt. Not that his best friend’s parents would care what he was wearing. They’d seen him in far worse. “I w-was j-just passing by-”

“Well, you should at least stay for dinner.” Wentworth eyed the open door behind him. Picking up on his echolation, Maggie shut it quickly.

“Definitely stay.” She patted his shoulder. He opened his mouth to object when Richie launched the football up again, narrowly missing the chandelier in the center of the ceiling. “Oh, Richard Tozier, not in the house! Take that outside and pass it around until dinner.” She left Bill no room to even object, holding her hand out for the ball.

“Oh, I sh-shouldn’t stay-”

“Mom, we don’t go outside-”

She took the ball from Richie. She whipped back to look at Bill. “Oh, please, do, Billy.”

“I j-j-jus-s-.”

“I’ll make green bean casserole.”

Bill paused. Mrs. T made bomb-ass green bean casserole. He hadn’t had it in months. His own mom was wonderful, and had many a talent, but cooking wasn’t particularly one of them. Wentworth was smiling smugly in the corner, like he knew they had him. That was probably because they did, frankly. Bill smiled and said “sure. Th-thank you, Mrs. T.” She grinned, and Richie glared daggers at him over his mother’s shoulder.

There were only so many things Bill could go through for a good casserole. He was currently sitting next to the eldest Tozier, Rich on his dad’s other side. They half-heartedly watched a game, considering he and Richie had never really given a fuck about baseball.

“You still seeing that girl, Bill? Beverly?

“Oh. Uh,” Bill shot a _what the fuck_ , _man_ , look at Richie.

Richie spluttered, “dad,” he began to correct, “he and Bev were never really-”

“Oh, Richie just mentioned you guys were-” Went made a vague and strange hand gesture with horrifying implications if it meant what Bill thought it did. “You know Richie could never really land a girl like that-” he joked, elbowing Bill. Bill coughed loudly.

Richie groaned.

“You know, he’s my son,” he gestured at his own face, as if it were bad and not that of a tall dentist with a strong jawline and good bone structure, “can only make this go so far.”

“Dad-”

“You know I had to trick Maggie into going out with me. Did you know that? She thought I was a total nerd, but I was willing to tutor her on her maths. She hates trigonometry, to this day, even, triangles give her the heebie jeebies- well, anyway- the ol’ math tutor game works, you know? Prettiest girl I ever saw happens to be shit in a class I’m acing. Well,” he winced, tilted his head to the side, “there was this girl in high school. Her name was Casey Jones. James? Something. Girl could wear a pair of sandals like nobody I’ve- heck, ever seen, even now-”

“DAD.” Richie stood. Bill had never seen him get exasperated at someone else for talking to much. He had to have learned it somewhere. He grabbed his reusable water bottle, the ones his mother insist they use as anything else was going to up and strangle a baby dolphin all on it's own. He uncapped it, taking a deep swig, like it was filled with something else. “We’re gonna go play a video game before dinner." Water aside, he still looked a little green at this strange confrontation of his father’s likely foot fetish. Bill, gratefully stood with him.

“Nice talking to you, Mr. T,” Bill told him politely as they passed by. He climbed the stairs behind Richie, hearing Maggie’s muffled laugh from the kitchen.

“Sandals, really, Went?”

“Had to do something, kid’s been driving me _nuts-_ ”

Richie shut his door behind him, looking angry. He still quickly deflected it, as he frequently did with his emotions. Bill never understood why. Everything was always shoved under some joke or character. But he didn't know why.  “what do you wanna play? Fortnite?” He leaned down and flicked his X-Box on. “I got the new-”

“R-Richie.” Bill crossed his arms with annoyance. He couldn't believe his attempt to shove everything under a rug. Again. Because it had gone _so well_ the first couple of times they tried. He raised an eyebrow.“You really wanna play a video game?”

“Well.” Richie blinked at him. “I didn’t drag you up here to paint our nails.” He mentioned flatly. Bill couldn’t help it, his chest huffed in amusement before he could stop it. “I do have a face mask if you want,” he joked, smile cracking, himself. He threw his water bottle on his bed. It nestled into the green comforter.

Bill laughed, and by laugh, he meant he barely avoided snorting unattractively  “do you actually?”

“Yeah. Bev left it over here.” Bill did snort then, laughing, and Richie joined in, kicking the frame of his bed. “I don’t know, Bill. What were you expecting?”

 

 

“Maybe to talk about last week?” Bill tried honestly. Of course, honest never really got him that far with Richie, who’s face only grew hot and angry at the suggestion.

“What do you want me to talk about?” Bill groaned, sitting down on his bed. Richie, the giant fucking drama queen, unable to have a conversation like a normal person, seemed to think that was basically treason. Richie’s voice rose, only seeming to get angrier at him. Of course. “YOU punched ME in the face?!” Bill opened his mouth to reply, but his stutter got stuck. Richie continued. "THAT’S A MOOT POINT, BILLY.”

“NOT  _THAT_ ,” Bill insisted, because he didn’t have anything else to say on that. He had done it. He wasn’t apologizing for it. "F-FUCK, CHRIST. M-MAYBE THE EVENTS THAT LED UP TO IT-” Bill yelled back. When he and Richie began to yell, it flew by, one right on top of the other, fingers flying in each other’s faces. Richie looked pissed, jaw tense and tight, and Bill realized he got a haircut Bill hadn’t yet noticed.

“I WAS TRASHED,” Richie defended loudly, yelling, like that bullshit excuse was going to be enough.

“OH YOU WERE N-NOT JUST T-TRASHED-”

“AND NOAH WAS PISSING ME OFF ALL NIGHT-”

“WHY DO YOU THINK TH-THAT MIGHT B-BE, RICH-”

“DON’T ACT SO FUCKING POMPOUS, DICKHEAD.” Richie fired back loudly, looking like he was one step away from shoving Bill. Bill groaned loudly, falling back dramatically on Richie’s bed.

“I didn’t come here to yell.” Bill told the pillows, less so Rich. Richie paced back and forth angrily on the floor. “I just want everything to go back to normal.”

“Well, it can’t. Not really.” Richie told him crossly, hands fussing with his grey gym shorts. Bill looked up at him skeptically. “I’m TRYING, okay, dude? You KNOW the entire thing him and Eds it just- it got me fucked up okay?”

BILL DID KNOW, HE HAD KNOWN. WHY RICHIE DIDN'T BRING IT UP LIKE A NORMAL PERSON - THAT'S WHAT BILL HONESTLY DID NOT UNDERSTAND. “Well, Richie you could have-” But once Richie Tozier was rolling he was not a stoppable object. And Bill had somehow managed to trigger it, and the rant fell out of his best friend’s mouth as he paced back and forth in front of the photos of him and Stan at boy scout camp in fifth grade.

“I mean, fuck, I knew it bothered me - but I didn’t even like when Mike was running around the Faire with Serena or whatever the fuck her name was last summer so fucking duh I didn’t think much of it. And Eddie’s Eds, though. Right. Like, Right? He’s just Eds. He’s been Eds. He couldn’t wait for all this to start until college, jesus fuck, we never see him as it is-” they saw him literally every day, but Bill couldn’t edge a word in - “and then there’s you and Bev crawling up my ass every nine seconds if I even so much as breathe his name in your direction, acting like how you just did: pompous fucks, and that’s not how anyone wants to deal with feelings of any kind-”

“...feelings?”

“SO YEAH, I show up at Mike’s so deeply, well reminded of how my friends can literally barely tolerate me as it is, and so I get SHIT-FACED and think it’ll help numb that annoying fucking STABBING feeling I get whenever I see Noah’s dumb fucking teeth, and guess what? It doesn’t fucking work. So, I’m DRUNK and UPSET and I LITERALLY CHECKED OUT SOME RANDOM NOT-EDS, AND MOTHERFUCK- WHEN DID SHIT GET SO COMPLICATED.” Bill wished, genuinely wished, he knew. “And, APPARENTLY,” Richie yelled, “I’M KIND OF INTO GUYS?” He frames it like a question, like he hasn’t even managed to truly rearrange it in his own head yet. Bill isn’t sure he’s so bluntly put it himself, in his own narrative. But, evenso, coming out of Richie’s mouth, it can only sound… correct. Like voicing something he had known for a long-ass, too long, time.

“Uh.” Bill swallowed, and says the only thing he can think to say. “Yea?”

Richie’s face went from ranting and contemplative to full-out outraged. He looked around, as if there were cameras in there and a crew waiting to reveal the joke. “And you KNEW THIS?” He yelled.

“I…” Bill’s eyes were wide. He didn’t know what to say. “...had my guesses.”

Richie’s face melted into some sort of betrayal, like Bill had admitted to cheating on him or something. “ _WHY_ DIDN’T YOU TELL ME!?” He screamed desolately, frustrated, and Bill was astonished that this wasn’t some sort of repression shit. That dumb fuck … didn’t know.

“WHY DIDN’T I- RICH,” he replied loudly, mouth breaking off in some noise that sounded a bit like sympathy, “THAT’S NOT. THAT’S NOT HOW ANY OF THIS GOES. THAT’S NOT HOW THIS WORKS.”

Richie groaned, and threw himself on to the bed next to Bill, face planing into his mattress. He was grumbling. Bill was shocked. Richie was really gonna be mad at him? That he didn’t tell him he was gay? Or, sort of?? How was that how it went… ever??!

He still looked upset, face shoved into his mattress. Bill wondered if he had addressed this at all with his parents, given that they were genuinely screaming. Not that he thought the Toziers would care. He would be shocked if they did. This just didn’t seem like the unshakable, always joking Richie that he knew. It didn’t seem like his best friend, nothing in the last few weeks did. Considering Richie used to be mad protective of Eddie when they were kids, once incident where Bill offered him a handlebar ride on his bike and Richie demanded Bill give him his helmet if they were gonna do that, Bill thought that if someone had told him he’d insult him to his face before the summer started, he wouldn’t have believed them.

“What the fuck is going on, Rich?” He asked quietly, observing Richie’s only slightly-less mop like head, splayed out on his comforter. “Is it some kind of Jesus thing?” He joked.

Richie snorted. “Jesus has plenty of other reasons to be pissed at me.” he rolled over, crossing his hands on his stomach, “if I go to hell, it’s probably not for wanting to suck Eddie’s dick.” He blanched, face paling quickly. “I didn’t-”

“You did.” Bill cut him off, not letting him let that one slide as he had with all the others.

Richie rolled his eyes, and then rubbed at them, tucking his sleeve-covered hand under his glasses. He sat up, looking tired and terse.

“It’s not just Eddie.” He told Bill crossly. Bill could believe that well enough. He didn’t think that was how being gay worked. “I’m attracted to the guy. Sure.” He admitted in a quiet voice. “But I’m not, like, in love with him or anything. It’s probably because he’s familiar or whatever.” ALL of that sounded like bullshit but Bill let Richie have his moment. “But it’s also just like…” Richie looked to him, looking open, vulnerable for the first time in… years, maybe. “Guys. You know?”

Bill wasn’t sure he did, but he said “yeah,” anyway, in an effort to not ruin the moment between them. “You… _really_ didn’t notice?” 

“I honestly don’t know what I was doing.” Richie replied, resting his elbows on his knees. “I guess… it was easy enough not to? I don’t know.” Bill nodded. Richie looked around at his room, squinting. “I hadn’t really thought about guys as like an abstract thing before. That sounds fucking dumb, but like- I don’t know. Guys, I guess. I don’t think I have it all… figured out yet.”

Bill put a hand on his shoulder, “that’s okay.” He reminded him. Richie looked up at him, half smiling.

“I guess. I just wish I understood how I felt about it a little more, or whatever.” They kept their prolonged eye contact up, Bill unwanting to break the moment of understanding, Richie finally losing some of his tension from feeling heard. “I guess there’s nothing to understand, huh?” He almost laughed, mouth quirking up at the side.

Bill smiled, looking back up at his eyes. “Yeah-” just beyond where Rich was sitting, his water bottle was tilted towards him, beginning to leak on to the bed. Bill reached over to right it so the cap wasn’t facing down. His mouth, very nearly, by a matter of milimeters, touched Richie’s.

Bill jumped back, feeling like a bucket of ice water dropped on top of the both of them, sending them sprawling away from each other once again. “Bro, what the fuck?” The walls of Richie's room never looked so mockingly gray. He felt watched by the video game poster he had hung up in Freshman year. But anything was better than looking at Rich. 

Bill had never once, in his entire life, seen Richie look so flustered. His face was bright red, his eyes were wide behind his glasses. “I don’t know man - I thought you were going for it!”

“You thought I was going to _kiss you_?” Bill spluttered incredulously.

“I didn’t know WHAT you were doing-”

“I was getting your water bottle-” Bill pointed at the water that was actually spilling on to Richie’s shorts. He jumped up, grabbing at it, swearing as he went.  Bill was having one of those moments where he was so shocked he didn’t know what to do or say. His brain was buzzing... astonishingly empty.

“Ah, fucking shitfuck-, Billy- Bill. You know I’m not in love with you or into you or fucking whatever, right?” Richie put his cup down and resumed his ranting pace. Bill blinked. He had never considered it before. Literally never considered it a possibility. “ _Right_?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

Richie’s face, watching his carefully for a reaction, fell. He looked...despaired, crumbling in the corners into absolute desolation. “FUCK. First, I lost Eddie, and now you- Bill, Mushmouth. I promise you, no- _I swear to you_ I don’t have fucking feelings for you or some shit like that I don’t know what the fuck I thought I was doing I just, I don’t know. But _I promise you_ I will not make it weird-” Bill didn’t know, truly didn’t, what his limbs were doing before they did them. All he really knew was how badly he wanted Richie to shut the fuck up.

And years later, that would still be his justification for why he grabbed his best friend by the shoulders, leaned up, and slotted their mouths together.

* * *

Eddie and Bev were walking silently around the cul-de-sac. She was anxious, he could tell. He thought that he maybe understood the anxiety. He was sure nothing she had t say could be chucked up to “hey, moms suck, right?” And then the TV laugh track would play and they’d wink at the camera.

Instead, they walked around in a circle, breeze kicking her hair into her face, Eddie ignoring the street signs that told him just how close his house was. Three blocks, tops. He was eighteen. He graduated. He wasn’t sure if she could even put out a missing person’s alert anymore. Or what the police might do if they found him. He didn’t know how any of this worked. He had never given it serious thought before.

Bev exhaled, and he starkly remembered that she might just have the smallest idea how it worked.

“I mean,” she huffed awkwardly, voice oddly light and chipper. “Of course, like. I don’t know.” She coughed. Eddie wondered when exactly the energy between them got so awkward. He didn’t know when that happened. He hadn’t meant for it to.

He supposed they had just… drifted apart, after everything with Richie and them.

Which was so stupid, Eddie thought to himself, to distance himself over a friend over _Richie_.

“I just wanted to tell you, that like, even after everything,” she dug her sleeve-covered knuckle into the corner of her eye, “with my parents and stuff. I, like…” There was sweat beading on her neck. “I still loved them, you know?” Bev fiddled with the hem of her sweatshirt, an inch taller than him but still looking small, “for a long time, I think. I thought I had to.” She paused, scuffing her foot into the pavement, frowning at her filthy converse.

“Not that I’m trying to make this about me." She smiled, but not in a genuine way. In an awkward attempt to keep anything between them light-hearted. Because this was something she had grown just a little bit used to. The discussion of shitty parents. His heart ached.

"I just,” she started walking again, long strides with long legs. “I want you to know you don’t have to… you don’t, like. You don’t inherently owe her anything.” Bev exhaled again, fiddling with her zipper.

Eddie reached out, tentatively knocking his hand into her hip, offering it up.

She blinked, and looked down at him with surprise.

He held his hand out sheepishly.

She took it, linking their fingers together snugly.

“I don’t know.” Eddie didn’t either. “You know we’re all here for you regardless of what you decide to do, right?”

Eddie didn’t want to say what was on his mind next. He felt somehow like he was going to let them all down. But he said it anyway.

“I’m going to go home and talk to her.” He told her. She held his hand supportively, fingers tightening. “She’s...my mom. She’s my family.” And that was all he could say. He didn't have a family without her. It was all he was given. There was no Aunt Clara for Eddie. Just three aunts that would undoubtedly take his mother's side. And he was young, and he wasn't ready to walk forth into the unknown alone. And maybe he was tired. Maybe he was a little distant, and unready for a full-out talk that maybe she had geared herself up for. Someday, perhaps.

He wanted to make himself reach out. He wanted to be more open. He couldn’t figure out the words that would get him there. “I just wish she’d…” _love me_ fell off his sentence just before it left his mouth, because he felt inadequate, saying something like that to Bev. His mother fed him, sent him to school, never laid a hand on him. He didn’t know how Bev would take it, or if she’d think he was trying to compare their situations.

She squeezed his hand. She wanted him to keep talking, but she accepted he wouldn’t be. Not that day. And the wonderful thing about Bev was she was content to circle the cul de sac again, not needing anything else from him but his company. They didn't say anything else about it that day.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jsyk: the fuckery in this chapter and the next few in this arch have been planned from before i even joined the fandom. just to. preface this.

OH FUCKING GOD WHAT THE FUCK BILL - his brain screamed as his mouth pressed into Richie's somewhat unresponsive lips. BACK OUT NOW AND MAKE A JOKE BUT MAKE IT A JOKE ABOUT YOU NOT ABOUT HIS APPARENT GAYNESS FUCK FUCK FUCK - and then, seemingly for a moment, Richie's mouth moved, pushing back on to his THIS IS FOR RICHIE THIS IS FOR YOUR BEST FRIEND I DON'T KNOW HOW BUT IT IS - and then, their mouths opened in some sort of strange synchronization and Bill's heart leaped from nerves in his chest at what that was or what this was all implying but it was too fucking late to pussy out, but Richie was pulling back and their lips separated with an all-too audible smack.

Bill looked in between his eyes, unsure what he was even looking to find, with an insecure feeling in his chest. Something about that felt entirely wrong - felt off to Bill. But what if Richie and him - what if he read their relationship wrong his whole life - 

"Ugh," Richie complained, wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand, "I feel like I just kissed my brother." He winced at the sheer memory of that. "You kiss Georgie like that?" He joked, mouth quirked. And Bill understood that Richie knew why he did it - some sort of combination of dear god shut up nothing has changed and nothing will changed because I don't care that you're gay and a strange question in Bill that needed to be quelled. 

"Fuck you," Bill exhaled. He had never before known relief quite like that moment. "I was just trying to-"

"I mean, I know I'm damn near irresistible, Billy, but dear god keep it in your pants, my parents are home-"

Bill laughed, relief fully washing over him like a warm summer's day on his shoulders. "But Richard how will I manage?" He asked, sitting down on his bed, knowing that they knew exactly what they were talking about while not mentioning the exact moment at all. And they never would. And that was fine, oh so fine, with Bill. 

"You'll have to manage with the women, Billy. My loins burn elsewhere."

"I don't think that's how that phrase works, dude."

"Why my loins would burn at all is the question," Richie grabbed his extra headset from the stand under his tv and chucked it at Bill, already flicking through the game menu with his controller. "That sounds both fucking dangerous and cool and hilarious all at the same time." He sat next to him, reclining back on his bed. 

And when they looked at each other, Bill knew that he never had to worry about Richie being secretly in love with him or anything - but more importantly, he knew Richie knew that Bill knew that. Which - as twisted and messy as it sounded, made sense to the both of them. And that was all that mattered.

He still couldn't fucking believe he did that, though. He thought about it all through dinner, condemning his impulsive, chaotic brain to hell and back. He was still shaken up by it, far moreso than Richie, apparently. Richie seemed to be dealing with the guys and girls preference swimmingly, as far as Bill could tell. 

"You're not gonna, like, tell anyone about like-" Richie asked. He looked apprehensive, unconfident for the first time Bill could remember in a while, fidgeting by his door frame after it all. He was haloed in the light from his hall, the sound of his parents watching a game show down the hall a strange soundtrack to the moment. "everything tonight, right? Especially the Eddie stuff. I mean, I'm serious. Nothing's gonna change... it's not like I'm in love or anything," he rolled his eyes. "It's not a big deal."

"Of course not, dude." Bill reassured him, hands in his pockets. "You know I'm not gonna tell anyone." The night was warm and balmy, Bill could already feel himself begin to sweat. Richie stared at him like he didn't quite believe him, but nodded anyway, and shut the door behind him. 

Bill took approximately three steps away from the Tozier household before he had his phone in his hand "Mike, I need you to come pick me up, I have to tell you about something." 

* * *

 

“And th-th-t-hthen w-w-w-w-w-, R-Ri-ch-chie w-wa-s ar-guing, And I-I-I-I- s-s-s-said-” Bill had not stopped rambling and Mike meant rambling as in he didn’t understand a damn word he said, since he sat down in Mike’s truck.

“Billy. Billy.” Mike couldn’t remember a time in recent history that he had called Bill Billy. That was normally Eddie, ocassionally Richie, he’d heard Georgie say it once, territory. “We got all night. You can tell me in ten. Breathe, man.”

“I’m just s-s-s-s-s-s-s- FUCK, so-so, sos-something!!” Bill yelled, seemingly throwing whatever emotion it was out of his system and into the air, because he slumped down in his seat after. He crossed his arms like a four year old, angrily - or contemplatively, something-y, staring out of Betsy’s truck window.

The story Bill managed to spit out, wrapped in old quilts and drinking sweet tea at the farm, was barely more coherent. Mike still didn’t understand, couldn’t quite wrap his brain around how Bill really thought the only solution to the issue at hand was to kiss Richie. That still made no fucking sense to him. But Bill was so distraught, that Mike tried to take him seriously, tried to hear out what he had to say.

That lasted so long, and then Mike could only burst into laughter. He was slowly starting to realize it would be wisest to stop trying to predict literally anything about that summer, because life continued to only get weirder and weirder. Bill was indignant, punching him in the arm, but it only made Mike laugh harder.

“STOP FUCKING LAUGHING-”

“IS THIS HOW WE SOLVE OUR PROBLEMS NOW,” Mike managed to get out through the laughs, “WE MACK EACH OTHER TO RESOLUTION.”

“FUCK YOU ASSHOL-”

“WHEN’S THE WEDDING?”

“MIKE IT MADE S-S-SENS-”

“Y’ALL GONNA BE MR AND MR DENBROUGH OR MR AND MR TOZIER-” and then he was getting smothered by his own damn pillows. Bill was bigger than him, so when he sat on his chest, Mike had little option but to yield, tapping out on his coffee table.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” Mike lied to a grumbling Bill, who climbed off of him but looked no less petulant,

only beginning to grumble about something every few minutes.

“So… like…” Mike drawled out. “What’s… the issue now? Are you,” he swallowed, “like… into Richie?”

“Mike, what? No. F-fuck.” Bill sounded completely incredulous, how Mike would have sounded if you pitched that thought to him like two weeks ago. But nothing fucking made sense anymore, he was far more willing to accept completely bizarre suggestions.

“O...okay… Are you, like, jealous of how Richie feels about Eddie?”

“Mike. No. I’m not trying to f-fuck Richie or Eddie or anyone. It was just, like, a misunderstanding.”

“Then why are you bugging out?” Mike asked, wriggling his toes around in his thick socks. It was a little too hot for them, but they were so soft.

“I’m not bugging out.”

“You’re bugging out a little bit, bro.”

“It was just weird and funny and I wanted to tell you, f-fuck.” Bill stood up, dropping his blanket to the floor.

“Where ya’ goin’?” Mike asked to Bill’s receding back. Not that he could go far if they were on the farm and Bill didn’t have a car.

“To piss.”

“Charming.” Mike picked up his phone from the den coffee table. His den was a little worn down, leather couch crumbling at the corners and with a coffee table Mr. Chips chewed at the legs of. It was still his favorite place on the farm, with the big ceiling fan and pictures of his dad and mom’s wedding on the wall. 

**Stan 8:32 p.m.**

**mike?**

**Mike 8:33 p.m.**  
**?**  
**whaddup**

 **Stan 8:34 p.m.**  
**How’d you ask out sabrina?**  
**Beyond the number thing: like full out date.**

 **Mike 8:34 p.m.**  
**i asked.**  
**it’s only like six words.**

 **Stan 8:34 p.m.**  
**Right.**

 **Mike 8:35 p.m.**  
**..who you gonna ask out?**  
**don’t pick bill he’s stressed out**

 **Stan 8:35 p.m.**  
**What?**

 **Mike 8:35 p.m.**  
**lol nvm**

 **Stan 8:35 p.m.**  
**Why would I ask out Bill?**

 **Mike 8:35 p.m.**  
**issa joke**  
**funnier in context**  
**i’ll tell you later**

 **Stan 8:36 p.m.**  
**sorry.**  
**I’m just nervous.**

 **Mike 8:36 p.m.**  
**nbd**  
**but who is it?**  
**what’s got you you don’t think she likes you?**

 **Stan 8:36 p.m.**  
**well, it’s complicated.**  
**you know Pat?**

 **Mike 8:36 p.m.**  
**the one you count with?**

 **Stan 8:37 p.m.**  
**Yeah.**

Mike squinted down at his phone. He tried to remember stories of Pat and what he could have to do with Stan, but as far as he could remember, he was a brand new employee to the offices - which ran a very different circle than the crowd Mike worked with. Stan hated him when he first showed up, but he said he chilled out and the problem sorted itself out. He hadn’t heard much from Stan about him since.

 **Stan 8:38 p.m.**  
**I know people say office romances are messy.**  
**But, and I know it’s not like me, but I think it might be worth it.**

 **Mike 8:39 p.m.**  
**wait**  
**you’re saying you’re into Pat?**  
**that’s who you’re trying to ask out??**

 **Stan 8:40 p.m.**  
**Yeah.**

One moment, Mike was sitting on his couch, and the next, he was pounding on his bathroom door. “BILL!!” THUD THUD THUD, “WE GOTTA SITUAT-” The door opened, and a flustered Bill with his hand on his zipper was standing there.

“MIKE,” he zipped up, “f-fucking, what?”

“I think Stan is coming out to me, bro.”

Bill’s face went gray. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

 **Stan 8:41 p.m.**  
**I’m really not trying to make a big deal out of it though.**  
**You know me.**  
**I don’t want everyone getting involved.**

“You’ve gotta like, make sure he knows it’s okay.”

“Why would he not think it’s okay? We’ve had an Eddie for years.”

“Because, Mike, that’s what you do when someone is gay- that’s just what you do!!”

"Do I gotta go kiss him?"

"Send the text, Michael."

 **Mike 8:42 p.m.**  
**well, i’m proud of you.**  
**n i know u know nothing is different now but**  
**i’m still proud.**

 **Stan 8:42 p.m.**  
**Thanks?**  
**I just don’t know how to ask.**  
**I haven’t asked out anyone since Prom and I knew her like all my life.**  
**It was all so different.**

“He’s gotta introduce us before he asks him out,” Bill said defiantly, plucking Mike’s phone from his hand. “I’m sick of these secret romances.”

“Yeah, first Eddie and Noah, now you and Rich-”

“Don’t.”

“Too soon?”

“I’m still- fuck, Mike.”

 **mike 8:43**  
**you should introduce us all**  
**not just me and patrick lol**  
**like the losers!**  
**we could do it at lunch or s/t casual**

 **stan 8:43 p.m.**  
**Haha - I just don’t want to freak Pattie out.**  
**We're ... a lot.**  
**Especially right now.**  
**And the last time I tried for lunch it really didn’t work out.**  
**Which is part of why I’m so nervous.**

“...he already has a nickname for him.”  
  
“That’s cute as fuck, though.” Mike pointed out factually.

 **mike 8:43 p.m.**  
**it doesn’t have to be a big deal!**  
**we just want to support you, stan.**  
**but i understand if you don’t want everyone getting involved.**

“What if we’re all gay?”  
  
“What do you mean ‘we’re all’?” Bill asked suspiciously, face crumpling up to look up at Mike. “You have something to tell me?” The oddly orange light made his skin look tanner, his eyes more pinched.  
  
“What?!” Mike asked, feeling oddly affronted. “No! I was just-”  
  
“I mean I wouldn’t be that surprised, bro-”  
  
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I d-don’t know!! I’m just saying-”  
  
Their arguing was interrupted by the sharp little ping of Mike’s phone. Mike tried to pry his phone out of Bill’s hand, but he didn’t budge. He held on to the phone with him then, as they both skimmed the barrage of texts from Stan. 

 **Stan 8:45**  
**No, I mean, okay.**  
**I suppose that makes sense.**  
**I guess we wouldn’t want another Noah situation on our hands.**  
**Not that Pat’s even a little bit similar to him.**  
**And I don’t have a Richie.**  
**Well I have one, but not in the same way.**  
**You know what I mean.**

“Oh my god.”

“Life has gotten… _so_ fucking weird.”

* * *

 

Richie knocked in the inane pattern, amazed he didn’t even have to get a step-ladder anymore. He could easily reach the ceiling with his fist just standing up right. He still got it and it was sitting by his feet, because he didn’t know if the flimsy ladder Eddie would throw down would be enough to hoist his body weight into the attic anymore.

The trap door slid open, the ladder fell down, and a barely-lit Eddie was grinning at him. “I can’t  believe you remember that.” He grinned. He watched Richie size up the ladder. He put his foot on it, and it groaned in protest.

“I have to remember it, Eds. It keeps out girls - especially Moms.” He grinned up at him. He stepped on to the rope ladder, which wasn’t happy about it, but it didn’t seem like he was going to rip a hole in Eddie’s ceiling. “If your house collapses, it’s not my fault.”

Eddie snickered, holding out a hand for Richie to grab on to. Richie did, half his weight half the way up the rope ladder, and nearly pulled Eddie clean out of the attic.

“Fuck, you lunk-” he complained, falling back and nearly pulling Richie’s arm out of it’s socket.

Before they had friends with cars and easy escapes - this very, very small attic above his garage was what Eddie considered his clubhouse. His mom never knew about it, but he found it one afternoon when he was tasked with helping his uncle clean out their garage. It wasn’t so much like the Denbrough attic- they couldn’t stand up in it when they were kids, let alone now. But, his mother had next to no suspicions about it, his uncle kept his word in keeping it a secret, and the walls in his house were so thin there was no way for him to have people over in his room without his mom knowing. There was a back door entrance to the garage that made it pretty easy for Richie to slip in.

Eddie, after just arriving home the night prior, didn’t dare to ask to leave the house that Sunday afternoon, and Richie pitched this idea as their next best option.

“Fuck, ow,” Eddie whined, head thumping back on the wood behind him. Richie was half-sprawled on top of him.

“Sorry.”

“You’re heavy.”

“I don’t try to be.” Richie rolled off of him, laughing. He wasn’t confident he could actually sit up, the space more a crawl space than anything else. There were little piles, a pair of shoes Eddie hadn’t worn since Middle School, notes from a project in 9th grade. “Think the porn I brought you is still up here somewhere?” He recalled, smirking to himself.

“Oh, god,” Eddie winced, shifting to sit up a little bit, leaned against the wall. His foot nudged the camping lantern that was their light source. “Probably.” Richie had brought him several dirty magazines in middle school, that Eddie had valiantly pretended to be interested in. “Along with a good number of spiders.”

Richie guwaffed, chin tucked unnattractively, he was sure, into his chest, still looking up at Eddie. “Remember that spider phase you had with Stan?” He asked. “Northern jewelled spider or something like that?”

Eddie blinked, looking down and surprised at Richie. “Yeah. First species of spiders found and classified as Australian."

"You liked the green on it's back," Richie smirked.

Eddie was staring down at him. His mouth was open, his eyebrows furrowed. Richie wished he knew what he was thinking. "How do you remember all of this?”

Richie snorted, tugging his phone out of his back pocket, and rolling back on to his back. He clicked the button and the screen lit up. “Gee,” he said, noticing his feet had to fall out of the hole in the floor or he wouldn’t fit at all, “it’s almost like I care about you or something.” He yawned, ignoring the little thump in his chest because he honestly didn’t want to think about it too long. “Billiam says hi, by the way.” He opened his text from Bev, a response to a meme he had sent her that morning, but didn’t respond, just locked his phone and looked back at Eddie. Eddie seemed like he was studying his face. Richie smirked, rolling over, hooking his arm up so he was resting his cheek on his shoulder, the rest of his arm cranked around Eddie’s body. He was so hyper-aware of him, trying not to touch him or anything or just make anything fucking weird, that it was awkward.

Eddie seemed to pick up on the awkward, and so Richie smirked, and used his other hand to pat on the ground in front of him, like how one might invite a dog or cat to snuggle up to them. Eddie rolled his eyes, but he laughed. He scooted down to lay down next to Richie, not snuggled up, of course, but flat on his back on the ground, wearing his dumb khaki shorts and polo shirt.

“So, tell me kiddo,” Richie’s arm was still awkwardly avoiding touching him, he dropped his hand into his own hair. “Why are we chilling in the spiders and porn club house?”

“So, my mom knows about Noah. Sort of.”

Richie couldn’t help it, he gasped, heart rate increasing even more than it already was. He would have sat up if there was literally any space to. How they used to fit the two of them plus Bill and Stan up there was a complete fucking mystery.

“Don’t blame yourself.”

“It wasn’t on that nig-”

“It was.”

And Richie’s a complete piece of shit feeling tidal wave crashing in three two -

“I said don’t blame yourself.”

“How can I not?”

“Because it’s not your fault my mom is the way she is.”

“Eddie, I-”

“Anyway.” He interrupted, keeping his eyes firmly on the dimly lit wood paneling ahead of them. The crawlspace was really poorly insulated, hot and musty. Richie could already feel the back of his shirt sticking to him. “I told her that Noah was like. Like a stranger. Because she saw him drive me home, and he was… taking advantage of me, I guess.”

“...mhmm-” that sounded painful as it was to Richie, but that was where it began, apparently.

“And she’s just been. Herself about it all week. Like… I don’t know.” He put his thumb in his mouth, biting at the bits of dead skin around his nails. Richie wanted to bat his hands away, but he let him do it anyway, squinting at the ceiling. “Showing me all of this stuff about STD’s and aids… inflamed dicks and shit.”

“That’s… fucking disgusting, Eds.”

“I know.” He replied quietly. “I couldn’t take it, and so I went to Stan’s on Thursday.”

Richie whistled, a low sounding noise he had to work at for years to get it to sound just right. “Yeah,” Eddie sighed in agreement. “I know.”

“I’m surprised you’re not taped to your bed, to be honest with ya’, Eds.” Richie admitted quietly. Eddie’s head tilted towards him, as he squinted at the ceiling. He looked almost contemplative. Richie’s hands flinched towards Eddie’s hair, wanting to rustle through the soft, short strands. He dropped his hand, instead, so it was lying above his head.

“I told her she can’t do that if she wants me in her life.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“I know.”

“I basically came home and I like. I don’t know, laid it out for her. You know, I’m 18, and I told her like… I won’t ever make my… private life a thing she has to see or anything, but she can’t stop me from-” Eddie continued on, tumbling into a ramble. It was like they rolled down hill into a river and the let-out wasn’t anywhere in sight. It was okay. Richie was content to listen.

He figured this pull towards Eddie had always been there. It was just louder, at that moment, now that Richie knew what it was, could acknowledge it. He tried to drop-kick it into next week. He had fucked up enough for Eddie. The last thing he needed was Richie trying to fuck up his relationship with Noah, a nice, steady, stable person. That wasn’t fair - not anymore.

“So… yeah.” Eddie finished, tilting his head on the ground to look over at Richie. He eyed Richie’s arm above his head. “I can accept being grounded for sneaking out because that's like, a normal kid thing. And I know I just shouldn't try and tell her about the gay thing or Noah at all because she'll never... like why try and be disappointed even if she can't stop me? I guess I just… like, I know what she thinks doesn’t matter really and won’t matter at all in a few months but like-”

Richie had heard him talk like this before. _‘I’ll be at college soon anyway,’_ he would say with a little smile. _‘I’ll be as gay as I want there.’_ It was never a fun conversation, it always made his heart sit in his throat. His mother was just a horrible person. But Eddie knew that, that wasn’t what he wanted Richie to say, it wasn’t what he was looking to get out of the whole talk. Eddie just wanted someone to tell him that he was doing a good job. That he was a good son. That he was making the best of just a shitty situation. And Richie could do that.

Eddie’s face was tired, a little sunken in, dark circles evident even in the low light. Richie just couldn’t believe himself, that he hadn’t realized in the slightest before just how handsome Eddie was to him. He had seen Eddie’s mouth before, obviously, but he never thought about kissing in the way he was at that moment. They were less than a foot apart. It would be so easy for him to just separate the gap -

but he wasn’t going to do that.

“She’ll be thankful one day,” Richie replied in a dead space. “You’re a better kid, a better son than like-” he gestured vaguely to where the street would be. “Anyone on this block.”

Eddie didn’t reply, and he didn’t look at Richie. He continued to stare up at the wooden paneling.

“You’re so good to her. I don’t know how you have it in you. You have such, like, a good heart, man.”

“I try,” Eddie admitted, unresponsive to the compliment. “I just. I know she loves me and stuff…”

“She doesn’t show it properly, though.” Richie reminded him. “Like her behavior towards you… a lot of people wouldn’t consider that love. You don’t have to take it as love… because it’s not.” He wanted to argue with Eddie about this, wanted him to see that his mother has treated him like garbage for years. But his eyes were already clouding over, getting distant.

“...yeah…” he agreed quietly, and Richie knew it was so Richie didn’t push the issue any harder than he already had.

“In other news, apparently Stan the Man is gay.”

Eddie blinked, like he hadn’t heard Richie say it at all, “I’m sorry… what?”

“You know that Pat dude he works with?”

Eddie squinted at the ceiling, like he didn’t quite remember what Richie was talking about. And it was true, Stan hadn’t complained about Pat, or mentioned anything otherwise, in a good few weeks. “...yeah, why?”

“He’s into him, apparently.”

“Huh,” Eddie frowned in consideration, eyes either fluttering or the dust was getting to him. “I mean, I’ve always known but-”

“Wait, really?” Richie asked. He had been so surprised he nearly fell out of his chair when Bev told him that Mike told her about it that morning. Bev told him she had a similar reaction. But the more Richie tried to wrap his head around it. Not to resort to stereotypes, but Stan was the cleanest person he had ever met.

“I mean,” Eddie shrugged as well as he could in the cramped space. “When you’re… I don’t know, we just sort of pick up on these things.” Richie smirked, looking over at Eddie’s sloped little nose still sort of twitching.

“A sixth sense?” Richie guessed, wondering if Eddie had known about him - how long he had known if he did… why no one told him these things- AND if Eddie had known… was it truly just unmutual? Not that it mattered. It was just attraction - not love or anything. Certainly not the end of the world.

“Something like that.” And then Richie couldn’t take it, the smile on Eddie’s face was so small and cute that he dug his knuckles into his head, mussing up the neat hair.

“Too fuckin’ smart for your own good, Eds-”

“OW, OW, STOP-” there really wasn’t much place to run, “AND DON’T FUCKING CALL ME THAT, ASSHAT-”

 


	23. Chapter 23

Ben drove to work that morning for the first time, in a long time, alone. It had been a weirdly quiet weekend. He didn’t necessarily mind, sometimes a little solitude in the midst of all the madness was desperately needed. But he hadn’t heard high or tail of his friends since that Friday afternoon when they went to Stan’s. He had texted Bill on Saturday but hadn’t gotten a response, and the group chat remained, as it had become, dormant.

The ride was perhaps lonelier than he expected it to be. It was pretty long, about 25 minutes from his house. He had gotten so used to the chatter of at least Bev on the phone or Stan calling from his car. He was surprised no one asked him for a ride. Bev could go in Stan’s car now, but not without knocking out another loser. He didn’t know who had gotten an additional ride, and why he didn’t know about anything his friends did that weekend - but he tried not to harp on it.

That didn’t keep him from harping on it, mind twisting over scenario after terrible scenario of all of his friends deciding at some sort of covert meeting on Friday night that he was awful and they weren’t going to talk to him anymore.

He knew it was completely ridiculous and unjustified, but he couldn’t stop thinking of his first few days at the Faire the first year, when the staff lunch room was too daunting and he didn’t have a car so he ate lunch behind his booth every day, as his supervisor both pitied and ignored him.

He got his first answer as he pulled into the parking lot. He drove, as he almsot always did, with his windows down, so he heard them as they pulled up. It was soft laughter, muttled objections of “stop, baby-” another laugh and then, “oh my god, what am I going to do with you?” The voice was familiar, so he looked out of his passenger window to see Noah, leaned against his, much nicer than Ben’s, car, Eddie pressing him against it, nipping at him under the jaw. Noah’s face was scrunched up with laughter. Ben felt like he had just driven into something incredibly personal, something he hadn’t meant to drive into. Noah had his fingers looped through Eddie’s back belt loops, playfully tugging him away, as it appeared Eddie was actually attempting to climb up the poor guy.

Ben began to roll up his windows… and he didn’t have an escape plan beyond that and sitting and waiting there for them to leave because he didn’t want to interrupt Eddie’s time with Noah. He knew it was few and far between.

“Come on-” Eddie’s voice had taken a turn that Ben hadn’t imagined him capable of. He couldn’t help it, his head whipped to the side to watch as the windows rolled up. Eddie had Noah’s face in his hands. He brushed his nose against his. Something in Ben’s chest coo-ed. It seemed very romantic. He watched Noah connect their mouths before looking away again.

Ben grabbed his phone from the passenger seat, and tried to make himself invisible.

Evidently, it wasn’t that hard.

The next time Ben looked up, about ten minutes before he would have to clock in, and Eddie and the car itself were gone. His car had never sounded so hollow when he shut the door.

Inside the Faire, as always, was complete chaos.

Today, moreso than usual, he thought. There were hoards of people accepting the morning order, putting it away, as usual, food going out to each station for the day, boxes of trinkets getting handed off to the vendors. But it seemed like there was a race going on, people running after each other in circles. The hat lady was loudly arguing with the UPS vendor.

“BEN!” Mike was running at him in a full sprint. Ben looked around, alarmed, unsure whether to move or not. He stepped to the side just in time, but Mike barrelled into him anyway, knocking the wind out of him and sending both of them flying to the ground.

Mike quickly rolled them over, tucking his arms under Ben. “COVER ME!” Mike yelled at him, kicking his legs under Ben. Ben flopped, wincing, bracing his arms on either side of Ben. He was terrified he was crushing him, but Mike snickered, looking at something over his shoulder. “YEAH, THAT’S RIGHT-” Mike taunted. Ben turned his head back to see a woman in her thirties with bright red, orange-ish dyed hair with dark roots, out of breath, and holding a marker. “TRY AND GET ME.”

“Fine-” she breathed heavily, scowling at the two of them. Ben smiled weakly, “this isn’t over, Hanlon.” She recapped her marker, sending another irritated look towards Ben, but she walked away.

“YOU’RE DAMNED RIGHT IT’S NOT, DENISE. AND I’LL BE READY AGAIN AND AGAIN-” she flipped him off over her shoulder. Ben laughed and looked down at Mike, raising an eyebrow.

“This is romantic.” Ben commented jokingly, hands still propped up by his head.

“I was cornered,” Mike shrugged. Ben rolled off, planting his hands in the rough grass by the entrance. He pushed to stand. “Thanks, though.” Ben held down a hand to his friend. A sweaty Mike looked appreciative, clapping his clammy hand with his. Ben hoisted him to his feet with a bit of struggle, still feeling short of breath. “Yo, man, somehow it’s still not the gayest thing that’s happened this weekend.”

“What?” Ben asked incredulously. He meant, granted: he just saw Eddie kissing Noah so, no, it supposed it wasn’t but he didn’t think that was what Mike was talking about.

Mike winced, eyes looking from left to right, like he was trying to figure out where to start. So his friends were together this weekend? “It’s this whole-”  
“Michelangelo!” Richie came running, albiet much slower than Mike had been, in to their conversation. He looped his arms around his neck from behind as a greeting, grinning. “Are you still in on the plan?” He asked, knuckles threatening to dig into his scalp as he was tugged back into his chest.

“Rich, ow, yes you asshole-” He elbowed him unagressively. Richie tripped coming off of hanging off Mike.

“Ben-ji-man!” Richie gasped like Ben didn’t work there every day and he hadn’t seen him in twelve years. “Where have you been?”

 _Nowhere_ , Ben thought, and then thought that he couldn’t just say that.

“Nowhere.” Ben replied. Fuck. “Just, at home. With Mom, and stuff.”

“Huh,” Richie cocked his head to the side, “thought you had something going on this weekend,” he planted his hands on his hips thoughtfully.

Ben shrugged, not sure what else to say. “Your plan?” He asked, looking in between Mike and Richie.

“Oh, shit, yes-” Richie, ever the easily distracted, snapped back into his previous mode, and grabbed Mike by the shoulders, “I gotta go, you know where to be?” He shook him, who rolled his eyes and assured him he did.

“Do you need-” Ben didn’t know whether he was going to say help? or me? so Richie cutting him off might have been a blessing.

“Nah, you’re good, man. I’d figure you had, like, office stuff, right?”

“Yeah.” Ben jerked his thumb over his shoulders towards the buildings, “office...stuff.” He looked back at it. It was as gray as it always was. When he turned back, Mike was also gone, headed up the path, talking into his headset. “See you guys, later?” He called after them, waving. They didn’t hear him.

Stan wasn’t at his desk when he passed by, even when he waited there for a few minutes, so he didn’t see any of his friends until lunch.

And… well, he could say they were as he has never seen them before.

Ben and Bev were furiously rubbing at their skin with a wet rag looking thing, arguing furiously with Eddie and Mike who stood behind them.

“IT WAS IN THE VICINITY OF COSTUMES,” Bill gestured behind him, “IT DOESN’T COUNT.”

“You weren’t in a costume, so, it does count.” Mike insisted, “I’m sorry, dude.”

“I’m just saying - ” Bev grumbled angrily,

“guests were on the other side of the wall, which-”

“Doesn’t mean shit, they weren’t in sightlines-” She looked to Eddie to help, he merely shrugged.

Ben admired the long, dark marks of purple and blue on Bill and Bev’s arms, signalling that they were probably out of assassin. Bill was pissed. Richie was talking hotly on his walkie by himself, sitting turned away from their tables.

Ben didn’t know how to approach. “Eight chairs?” He asked, grabbing one and sitting down, laughing a little to himself, “one for Bill’s imaginary friend?”

“Har-har,” Bill flicked a napkin at him. Any other day it would have been fine, but with the twisting feeling already in his gut, that combined with the sour look on his face made him want to vomit.

“Stan’s bringing Pat,” Eddie muttered, looking down at his phone before quickly replying to another text. “Ugh, oh my fucking god why is this-”

Ben was glad he had managed to ask her out. She was kind and pretty and just the right amount of strange that he thought they could really work out.

“Language, Edsiekins,” Richie commented. Ben didn’t even know he was listening, seeming absorbed in his walkie. He was sitting with his back flat against the wall, staring around the room nervously. He figured that meant he was looking out for whoever had him in assassin. He wondered if that meant only Mike and he were left in the game. Maybe Stan.

He sat down as Eddie snapped back “don’t fucking call me that and you can watch your goddamned language-” but Richie was laughing in response, grinning at Eddie like he invented swear words himself.

“Stop laughing,” Eddie laughed himself. He rolled his eyes, “asshole.”

“Oh, come onn~” Richie whined, finally setting down his walkie...in a similar way Eddie did to Noah, that morning. He reached for his cheek. “I see your giggles, Eddie-”

“These are not giggles.” Eddie quieted himself poorly, doing an equally bad job of pretending to be mad, “these, stop it,” he swatted at Richie’s hand, “are manly chortles. The manliest chrotles.”

“Why of course,” Richie agreed, pinching his cheek relentlessly anyway, “my manly little-”

“Ow, ow, fuck, Rich-”

“SHH! SHH!!!” Mike shushed them loudly, flailing his hands over them as he sunk down into the seat between them. “STAN’S COMING, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, EVERYONE ACT NORMAL. NOT OUR NORMAL. NORMAL PEOPLE NORMAL.”

His friends, for some reason, were watching them walk over with crumpled, confused expressions. Patty was wearing a dress with butterflies on it, but was biting her lip, glancing nervously at Stan. She had her hands tensely holding a lunchbox shaped like a turtle. Stan, also looking nervous, brought his hand to Pat’s back.

“Hey, guys.” He slid out a chair for Patty, which she smiled at him graciously for, and gracelessly slipped into, catching her ankle on the rod of the chair before she basically fell into the seat. “What’s up?”

They all looked in between each other tensely. Ben, frankly, had no idea what was up.

“Hey,” Mike broke the tension, and smiled brightly up at Stan. Stan brought his hand up on to Patty’s shoulder blade, rubbing in a cool, cautious circle. “I’m Mike, nice to meet you.” He held out his hand to her kindly. She took it, shaking. “I thought you said Pat was coming?” He directed to Stan.

Stan looked back and forth between them, “...this,” he swallowed, staring down at his friends. “This is Pat…” She smiled nervously at them.

They were met with blinking faces and wide eyes.

“I promise I brush my teeth…” She told them with a small, nervous laugh. Ben laughed with her. What the fuck was wrong with his friends?

“What’s...up?” Stan, equally as suspicious asked, planting his hands on the table in front of her. He didn’t say it, but he gave them his patented why are you guys all acting like dicks?face.

“Sorry, hi!” Bev greeted, bouncing forward in her seat all at once. “It’s not you,” she grabbed Patty’s forearm in a manner that looked comforting. “Just a, thing, happened. Nothing at all to do with you,” she patted her arm. “I love your dress. Did you say you count with Stan?”

“No, tell me:” Stan tapped Pat’s shoulder in an apology for not allowing her to speak. “Why are you guys acting like I just stabbed someone in a rockette costume?”

“I was thinking it was at least lingerie-”

“Shut up, Rich.”

“We were under the understanding,” Bill cleared his throat, raising his eyebrows and then lowering them, “that Pat was of the male persuasion.” He explained tensely. “But now, it’s clear she isn’t, or at least: you’re not right?” Patty blinked, then pointed to herself, looking shocked. “R-right?” She shook her head wildly. “Right, s-s-s-so we’re j-just surprised, is all.”

“Billy was ready to throw a pride parade for ya’ right here in this very cafeteria,” Richie laughed, stuffing his sandwich into his mouth, “Richard Tozier,” he introduced himself crudely, “charmed, I’m sure.”

“Wait a minute: you guys thought Pat was…”

“Male.” Mike filled in helpfully, nervously. Ben began to reel over he weekend, wondering exactly how much he missed while his friends were deciding sexualities for each other. Were they together all weekend? Had he actually done something?

“What… what the fuck made you think that?”

“I’m sorry,” Mike held out his hands defensively, “Pat is an androgynous name! And you were constantly talking about hating the dude so I just figured-”

“...you hated me?” Pat asked Stan, eyes turning on him, big and concerned. 

“Oh,” Bev tried to intervene, “hate isn’t the right word-” her hair spilled over her shoulder in copper streaks against her white camisole.

“So you figured I was gay?” Stan harped on Mike, raising his voice a little bit, sounding seething and incredulous. His face was unnaturally flushed, but his hair was neat, like he had worked hard on it that morning.

“Well,” Eddie sat up furiously, whipping his head to Stan. Stan’s voice was harsh, as if it were very insulting to him to be gay. “What’s wrong with being gay?!” He demanded, hair flopping into his eyes. He could do with a cut.

“Yeah??” Richie agreed, asking Stan, too. He nodded to Eddie in his stand with him. “I’m gay.” He announces nonchalantly. He bit into his sandwich, frowning like he was considering it, “Both.”

“Bi.” Bill corrected factually.

“Yeah.” Richie agreed, nodding at Bill. Ben felt the air run out of room as his friends, minus Bill, gaped at Richie wordlessly. Bev’s face was turning as red as her hair. Mike, somehow, looked like he knew.

“...why didn’t you like me, Stanley?” Pattie asked, looking hurt and confused in the silence that followed. Their circle was just staring around at each other as they processed the information that just came out of Richie’s mouth. Stan was just staring at him. Ben had lost himself in the past few moments, so confused he felt like a meme, and he just leaned forward and his words fell out of his mouth.

“Wait... What?” He asked Richie. He didn’t- no, he couldn’t have-

The only other person who looked anywhere close to words was Eddie. “So,” he spit out, leaning in like he was hissing at Richie over Mike, “you just _decided_ to be gay now?!” The collar on his shirt was lopsided, his little vest wrinkled.

Richie shrugged, mouth full of sandwich. “I didn’t, I just kissed Bill the other night, and, you know-.” Richie replied like that was a logical ends to the means of the gay question. Eddie spluttered. Mike was still staring at Patty. Bev flipped on Bill with a disbelieving look. Stan choked.

“Excuse me,” Ben asked, as Bill began to stutter out an explanation.

“When were you going to tell me this?” Eddie demanded, standing and planting his hands on the table.

“Why would I have to tell you, Eddie?” Richie demanded, finally swallowing the food that was flying out in little bits from his mouth.

“Are you gay?” Bev asked BIll quietly, leaning in like they could have some sort of privacy at a table of 8 nosy people.

“I, d-don’t, I’v-” Bill defended poorly.

“CAN WE FOCUS ON ONE GAY THING AT A TIME?!” Mike asked loudly, looking in between the pairs with confusion. Patty’s eyes were still locked on Stan. Stan opened his mouth, probably to defend that there was no gay thing with him- but Eddie exploded first.

“I can’t FUCKING BELIEVE YOU.” He yelled, looking like he wanted to throw something at Richie. 

“Not every BIG GAY MOMENT revolves around you, Eddie.” Richie retorted, standing too, looking furious.

“WHEN WERE YOU GONNA TELL ME?” Eddie leered into his eyes, despite the height difference, looking like he could rip Richie’s head clean off his body. Richie, however, despite his usual passivity, wasn’t looking prepared to back down either. His jaw was tight, his eyes squinting, missing his usual massive glasses. He always wore contacts to the Faire.

“IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU.” Richie insisted.

“I NEVER SAID IT WAS.”

“CAN WE FINISH THE GAY STAN THING,” Mike grabbed the hems of their shirts, tugging them to sit down with surprising strength, “ _BEFORE_ WE START THIS. _PLEASE_?”  
  


”WH-WHAT _GAY STAN_ THING?!” Stan finally yelled. Ben hadn’t thought he heard him yell in their friendship yet. “THERE IS NO GAY STAN THING.” He gestured at himself furiously, looking like he was trying to wave off a hoard of flies. ”STAN IS NOT GAY.”

“Well, SORRY,” Mike shouted back, “ _I’M_ in a bit of a SHOCK right now.” He sat back fussily, acting like someone told him something he had known for years wasn’t true. Like, Eddie was straight or brownies were made of mud.

“It’s a phase, guys,” Richie assured, waving his hand in the direction of Stan, “he’ll grow out of it.” He bit into his sandwich again, and Ben cringed.

“Grow out of what?!” Stan looked around like someone could give him the answer as to what the fuck Richie was talking about, “heterosexuality?!”

“You’re CONFUSED, Stan.” Richie insisted through a mouthful of sandwich.

”Con- _confused_?!” He asked again. Ben believed it was strictly impossible for him to sound any more incredulous, anymore disbelieving, than he did in that moment. “I’m ... I’M NOT.”

“Well,” Richie shrugged, chewing again. He swallowed, but was eying his next bite of his sandwich, “if you’re going to be difficult about it.”

“Were _you_ going to tell me about this?” Eddie rounded on Bill.

“Oh, don’t yell at your guard dog over this, Eddie-” Richie snarked, snapping at him. Eddie looked so ready to fight him that Mike put a hand on his tummy as an almost reminder to not.

“Wait a minute, did you say _you_ ,” Stan pointed at Richie, “kissed _Bill_? And _I’m_ the one who’s gay?” He flipped on Bill, too. Ben swallowed, looking at bev, who was also still staring at Bill, waiting for an explanation.

“Wh-why are w-we talking about m-me?” Bill asked the table, looking around at the people staring at him. “Richie just came out, Stan just reverse came out, _yaaay_ ~” he tried, clapping by himself in Richie’s direction. “And P-pat’s here, _yaaay_ , _welcome Pat_!!”

“ _You came out to Bill,_ ” Eddie grumbled under his breath, just loud enough to be audible, standing finally, grabbing his tray despite Bev’s weak protest of “ _Eddie_ …” “ _Unbelieveable, Richie. Just unbelievable.”_ He stood, fumbling to his feet.

“Oh, you fucking hypocrite, like you didn’t do the same thing-” Richie stood up, looking ridiculous in his Faire costume while getting mad. He grabbed his sandwich, unready to let Eddie run away. Eddie did run away often, and when Eddie ran, he ran fast. “SOPHOMORE YEAR, DON’T YOU REMEMBER?”

Eddie stopped, staring down Richie, hands gripping the tray so tight it might crack, “THAT WAS DIFFERENT.”

“HOW SO?” Richie got in his face, leaning over Mike. Mike looked like he had a major headache, and pressed his hands to his head.

“YOU KNOW HOW, YOU ASSHOLE.” Eddie nudged his tray into him, not even hard enough to push him, but enough to piss Richie off more.

“ENLIGHTEN ME.” He yelled at Eddie, looking hurt. Ben remembered what they were yelling out. Eddie waited a long tidme to come out to Richie, almost 8 months after he had come out to the rest of them.

”I DON’T WANT TO DO ANYTHING WITH YOU,” Eddie yelled, and they had officially garnered the attention of the entire room. He stormed away, abandoning the contents of his tray into a trash can.

“Eddie!” Bill, red faced still, wearing his sweaty baseball tee, stood and called after him,

“OR YOU.” He yelled back, storming out of the room towards the Faire. Bill cursed under his breath, pushing out from the table and making to follow him.

“Of course, _everything’s_ about him, little bitch-” Richie muttered. He also turned, and stomped towards the outside smoking area. He kicked a chair as he passed. Bev rolled her eyes, but made to follow him just the same.

Ben looked up and realized Stan was standing with a nervous, upset looking Patty by the bathrooms.

“Oh, shit-” Mike must have seen them too, because he stood up, and made to follow the two of them, as they were headed towards the back entrance. “Stan, Pat- Patty, I’m _sorry_ -”

Ben stared around the table, barely believing the last ten minutes had happened, but fully believing how it left him: alone. Again


	24. Chapter 24

* * *

“You know: you’re shitty at listening to directions.” Bill expected an angry Eddie. But angry Eddie came in many flavors. This was angry, pacing Eddie, and one Bill could, frankly, handle just fine. He was really just happy to not see cold, callous, shut down Eddie. Pacing angry Eddie was normally short term angry Eddie, not actuallymad but feels he has a right to be Eddie. “You know that?”

“I do,” Bill sat on a comically oversized hay bale, watching his best friend look remarkably like an elf because he had for some reason put his giant hat back on with the ridiculous giant feather.

“I’m starting to think whenever I want you to do something I’m going to have to tell you to do the opposite!!” He ranted, still fussily pacing back and forth. “Like a dog!!”

“...a dog?” Bill had never had a dog, but based on the minimal information he had: that metaphor didn’t add up.

“Oh, fucimsdog-“ he spluttered, unable to come up with a defense for his statement. “Fuck you, Bill.” Eddie settled on elegantly, spitting angrily. “How many dogs have you trained?”

“I just don’t think dogs are rebellious enough to-“ Eddie kicked the hay bale he was sitting on. “Well let alone, they’re not exactly the smartest animals-“ Eddie then decided kicking didn’t satiate him, and shoved Bill straight off of it. Bill collided with the ground with a solid sounding ‘oof’ and a pain in his side. “Okay. F-fucking OW?!?”

“Fucking know-it-all,” Eddie grumbled. Bill’s side groaned at him. Bill felt like that was very unfair. He felt like there were people in the group, cough cough Stan, that felt he could reasonably call a know-it-all, but he wasn’t one of them.

“Wanna hear another thing I’m right about?” Bill attempted to capitalize on what he thought was a semi-playful mood. And just to prove he wasn’t a know-it-all: he immediately knew he was wrong, because Eddie’s eyes narrowed. He tried a charming smile that legitimately hadn’t worked on Eddie since they were 14 but he had no other back up plans.

Eddie kicked him in the shins.

“OW.” Bill complained loudly, rolling away, “DO YOU NUH-NOT REMEMBER I’M M-MADE OF PEOPLE?? THAT HURT. FUCK.”

“So fight back.” Eddie told him nonchalantly, sitting on the hay bale like it was an invitation. Bill blinked at him from the ground, realizing Eddie just wanted to tussle out his feelings, but he wasn’t going to do that at work.

“I can’t, man,” he stood up, dusting off his pants, “that’ll look like a f-fuh-fucking h-hate crime.”

”Why??” Eddie’s head whipped angrily to him. “Because I’m gay?!” He demanded.

“No, because you’re short,” Bill replied sarcastically. Eddie’s angry face would have been scarier if he weren’t wearing his hilarious little costume for the stand. It was hard to take any man seriously with a feather in his face. And then Eddie’s eyes ran down his body to his junk and Bill’s blood ran cold.

“I’m sorry!” He announced defensively, already flexing his hips out of Eddie’s smacking reach, “you and many other gay dudes could kick the shit out of me, alright? Together, if you want! W-we can m-make a whole p-puh-party out of it. You c-can make a facebook event!” Bill turned, and realized he was getting the attention of two very pretty girls walking past, staring perplexedly at him.

“You kn-know w-what?” He told them defensively. They started to walk away. “It was EXACTLY what it sounds like. I’m gonna let some gay guys beat me up, and I’M GONNA HAVE A GREAT TIME.” They were officially too far away to hear him, but other people definitely did, and he had attracted the attention of several patrons. He sunk down into the hay dejectedly, sinking into Eddie, “there, are you satisfied?”

“A little.” Eddie agreed, dropping his head on top of Bill’s, which was slumped on his shoulder. Which would have been sweeter if Eddie’s enormous hat wasn’t butting into the moment. “What were you gonna say?”

“When?” Bill had no idea what Eddie was talking about.

“When you said that thing about being right.”

“Oh.” He started to backpedal. He had just made up with Eddie. He had (1) guaranteed friend at the moment. He wasn’t gonna throw that in the trash. “Nevermind.”

Eddie sat up, disturbed at the comment, “tell me.” He demanded. His comical hat fell off. Bill was afraid.

“It’s not important.”

“If it wasn’t important you wouldn’t have remembered it.”

“I don’t remember it.”

“You clearly do or you wouldn’t have hesitated so long.”

“But… I-“

“You’re hesitating now. Which means you know-“ Eddie pointed out with his terrifying logic, “and you’re gonna tell me.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Why would you not want to?”

“It will make you mad.”

“Since when does that scare anyone? Everything makes me mad.” Eddie countered logically.

“I didwatch you yell at peanut butter once.”

“Chunky peanut butter is a waltzing showcase of human mediocrity and has no right to exist.”

“I think it’s g-good-“

“No, you don’t, and you’re trying to distract me. Tell me what it is.”

“Why do you want to be mad??” Bill asked, throwing his hands out with exasperation. “Don’t you remember? We were just having fun, right now?”

Eddie raised his eyebrows. Try he did, but he never got the hang of raising just one. “Your idea of fun is announcing your kinky bdsm plans to a crowded square that already suspects you’re gay?”

“Well, I-“ Bill stopped, heart skipping a beat, and stared around. “What??” He eyed the women working the lemonade stand, who were staring at him and Eddie. “They do??”

“Oh, definitely.” Eddie waved at the women politely. They giggled, then waved back. Bill spluttered, looking in between the two. “You let Richie announce in our busy cafeteria that you two locked lips. And then followed me out. I’m gonna guess that gossip right now has practically turned this entire day into an episode of Queer as Folk.”

“Is it not?”

“You’ve watched that show?”

“I- okay. This isn’t helping. Don’t you have to go back to the stand? I have a call in a not so far time…” He lied, his call wasn’t for another fifty minutes. He always had a long lunch break, people have to eat before they watch him swing a sword at some guy.

Eddie stepped on his loose boot string - damn, when had that come untied, and kept him in place. “Tell me.”

Bill sighed. He was wondering if those ladies were going to want to be his new best friend now that he was apparently the new gay in town - he was going to need friends. “I think you should apologize to Richie.”

Eddie blinked in surprise. He looked at Bill, then his boot, and slowly removed his foot. He frowned. “You’re right,” he told him, “that did piss me off.” Bill winced. Eddie turned to him, hair all mussed where his hat had fallen off. Bill opened his mouth to defend himself, but Eddie kept on talking “Richie so much as breathes and he’s goddamn Hitler to you over something he didn’t even do to you and now you’re trying to defend him to me? Is the Faire right?” He asked, but didn’t want Bill to answer. Funny thing, that. “Did you fall in love with him or some shit??”

“Eddie,” Bill grabbed at his sleeve as he moved to walk away, “he didn’t tell you about the gay thing for two days. You didn’t tell him for, what? Nine months after you told everyone else? Why do you get to freak out at him??”

A weird expression came over Eddie’s face, and for how smug he felt a moment before: getting Eddie to admit he was wrong was virtually impossible, he suddenly felt like the smallest, dumbest ant that thinks a boot is a snack for the farm. Like he hadn’t understood what Eddie was thinking, feeling, at all. And he wouldn’t any time soon.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Eddie told him, sinking into a deeper, colder tone. Bill shrunk.

“Are you mad at me?” Eddie didn’t respond. He picked up his hat where it fell off on the hay bale, and put it crookedly on his head.

“HEY?!” He called after Eddie, who was walking determinedly, and surprisingly quickly for such short legs, away from him. “ REMEMBER WHEN YOU WEREN’T MAD AT ME? FOR ABOUT THREE AND A HALF MINTUES? SEVEN SECONDS AGO? CAN WE GO BACK TO THAT, FOR THE L-LUH-LUH-LOVE OF GOD?”

Eddie hadn’t responded in Anything close to the volume of Bill’s yell after him, but he spoke loudly, in a clear voice: “Give oral to a cactus, Bill.”

* * *

Ben had been staring at the same desk for about five solid minutes. Bev would have checked her watch if she had one, or one of those cool pocket watches that she had this fantasy (in Middle School) of sewing little pockets into all of her garments to support, but she hadn’t done that either. Her phone was a good enough time keeper. And she liked it’s background. It was Mike, Ben and Richie dressed as Alvin and the other two chimpunks no one knew the name of. She could hear Mike yelling _that’s not true_ in the back of her head, and okay, fine, but: she certainly didn’t know their names.

Five minutes sounds like passing time, horseradish in comparison to the rest of life. But watching at your friend, some would argue her best after that very revealing conversation with Richie, stare at a piece of paper for five minutes without moving, possibly without blinking, gave one a new understanding of the concept.

Bev knocked patiently on the wall by his little cubby. Cubicle- she corrected herself. Although she was much more amused by the thought of a cubby. Like office workers were small hamsters digging themselves into little holes. She didn’t know if hamsters actually dug, come to think of it.

Ben didn’t respond to her knock, leaving her amole time to ponder hamsters and their homing habits. She knocked again, patiently.

She hardly doubted it would give Ben the fright it might give her if someone came up and grabbed her shoulder. But she gave him the same courtesy, nonetheless.

And then, still, more staring. Beverly frowned, and walked up to tap his shoulder, paranoid mind suddenly running through all of the terrible things that could have happened to her friend.

Ben jumped, but he smiled in the moments after, and Bev exhaled. “Bev!” He straightened the buttons on his shirt. “Sorry, you scared the shit out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” she huffed, not exactly laughing but moreso exhaling really quickly through her nose, “I knocked.”

“Oh~” a small dawn of realization came over Ben. “I heard that, I just didn’t think anyone was looking for me.” He explained quickly. His face turned sour as he realized the implications of what he just said “er- I mean.”

She shrugged, “I get it.” She sat on his desk. Her heart sank a little bit at the thought of Ben being so unconvinced anyone wanted to talk to him he ignored straight up knocking. She rerouted, fumbling around in her mind a little bit for what to say. It wasn’t a short walk from her job to the offices, took up the entire duration of her fifteen, which was going to be more of a half, just for walking. “How… are you?” She asked.

She realized she felt kind of shitty, walking over here just to complain about Richie. She and Ben hadn’t really talked that weekend. She didn’t even know what was up with him.

“I’m-“ he hesitated, “I’m fine.” He shrugged… but in a lying sort of way. She narrowed her eyebrows.

“What’s wrong?” She pressed, leaning over. She always felt out of place in the offices in her Faire costume, green skirt sweeping just past her calf, thick brown leather work belt around her waist, filled with measuring tapes and size guides.

“It’s just-“ he paused again, either looking like he didn’t know or he didn’t want to say, “it’s nothing. Honestly.” Bev didn’t have a ton of pet peeves, but qualifying things with ‘honestly’ when they were painfully obviously a lie was probably one of them.

“Okay,” Bev replied, exhaling softly as she did, looking around Ben for obvious signs of distress. She wasn’t sure how to proceed- launch into how much of an ass Richie was.

“So,” Ben pushed his lips together, “what’s up?” He asked. She didn’t want to say she came there to talk about Richie, and so she didn’t, she just shrugged. Ben almost laughed, and Bev could feel her eyebrows crumpling. “Well, you obviously came here for _something_.”

“Oh, is it that _obvious?_ ” Bev replied hotly. In that moment, she was there to talk about Rich, and that was true. But Ben was acting like she never spoke to him unless she needed something. Which was blatantly unfair.

Ben blinked in surprise, looking up at her with wide eyes. “I wasn’t…” He back-stepped, because he could never handle making anyone the tiniest bit upset. “I’m just saying, it’s a long walk to come out here for nothing.”

Bev squinted at him, “why do you keep talking like you’re nothing?” He asked him bluntly, almost surprised at herself in the moments after that it fell out of her mouth.

“I’m not,” even though the flush on his cheeks said otherwise, “I’m just saying that:”

“You’re _just saying_ anything but the truth,” she countered, looking down the hall to check for company as she could feel her voice rising, shaking. She didn’t come there to fight with Ben, quite the opposite, but he was upsetting her. “What’s got you so upset?”

Ben laughed dismissively, only stoking the quaking, shaking feeling in her throat, “I’m not upset!” He insisted, again, lying, because Ben was a terrible liar. He always did these unnatural, completely un-him hand gestures and these odd facial expressions.

“Why don’t any of you trust me?” She asked finally, lip quivering as she did so. Her baby hairs, flying out of her French braids, were sticking to her face from the heat and sweat of being outside. She felt one coming dangerously close to her eye, and dug it out of the way. “Is it something I did?” She thought back to Richie, to him completely shutting her out, again, like he always did, when all she wanted to do is help. And Eddie doing the same thing. Stan not even mentioning Patty to her even though they hung out together on Sunday.

“I do,” Ben’s hands twitched towards her, but ultimately he didn’t move them from his thighs. “I do trust you.”

“Then why are you lying to me? We’re best friends, Ben.” She told him.

Bev, sometimes, had a hard time opening up her heart to people. The more open it was, she found, the more room there was for hurt. Sometimes she thought that maybe locking it up with an iron chain was best for everyone. Because she would have sworn, years ago, when they met and Ben was sort of short and round, that he would never, ever hurt her. He was incapable. But Ben was, right at that moment.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he told her, like he was reading into her mind, and that scared her but she replied anyway.

“You are.”

“I’m sorry,” he told her, the first honest thing he had said since hello. “I didn’t realize I was hurting your-“

“No, Ben, goddamnit-“ she swore, then lowered her voice quickly, hyper aware of how quick it had risen. “This isn’t about me, this is about you.” She insisted. She realized, all in once at that moment, how stupid this fight was.

“Well, sorry,” he replied hotly, “ _I’m just not used to that._ ” He bit back, then looked around the office tensely, as she had, for others. His wing was still empty.

“Well maybe you would be if you, every once in a while, just told me how you were feeling.” She muttered in an angry almost whisper. She was there to listen. No one ever talked.

Ben, however, just looked angrier. She had seen it a few times, eyes squinting and hands tensing. “You know very well I can’t just wander around shouting about my feelings.”

She scoffed, “why not?”

“Bev:” he looked pissed, like there was some big secret that they were in on like he was a spy or Batman or something and had to keep it from everyone, “you know why.I’m not trying to ruin everything for nothing.” He was being so bizarre and cryptic Bev could literally scream. She felt a great need to do so. “You know it’s best for me not to say anything.” NO, SHE DIDN’T KNOW. SHE HAD NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT HE WAS TALKING ABOUT.

“Well, _obviously_ ,” she shot back at him, hopping off his desk, “I don’t,” she retorted. She fiddled with her belt mostly to have something to mess with. “When you decide you want to tell me,” she insisted, walking around the corner, “you know where to find me.”

“Bev!’ She heard him call after her. She kept walking. She then heard a little clatter which was likely his hand colliding angrily with his desk.

* * *

“Are…” Bill stared across the walkway at Richie. “Are we fighting?” Eddie was ready to ram his head into a steel pole as they squinted at each other inquisitively. Dumbasses. Absolute dumbasses.

“I don’t… think so?” Richie replied, quirking his head to the side. His hair was officially long enough that it brushed his shoulder when he did. “You told Mike about the thing though, didn’t you?”

Eddie didn’t know what they were talking about and he was still pissed at both of them, so he settled for staring around the square instead, looking for Stan. It was time to leave, and Eddie was about as excited as he ever was to go home.

“I told him about the thing but I didn’t tell him about the thing thing.”

“The thing thing being?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s still annoying, but okay.” Richie replied. Eddie finally looked back at him as he shoved his hands into his pockets. For the first time in a very long time, it seemed like he was pissed off with Eddie, too. He wasn’t making any effort to look at him.

“Hey guys!” Emily, or Eddie thought that was her name, free of her new Princess costume, long blonde hair spilling over her shoulders.

“Hey, Emily,” Bill greeted. Richie did that douchey head nod thing he did when he didn’t particularly care about the presence of someone else. Emily saddled closer towards him anyway, weaving around Eddie uncomfortably. Jesus, was the Trashmouth really that blind he had no idea?

Eddie looked up at Richie’s thick glasses, and snorted at his own joke he made in his head.

Emily looked to him with confusion, meek smile on her face like she’d like to know what was funny. Eddie kicked himself for laughing out loud.

Everyone was staring at him expectantly, but he hadn’t been paying any sort of attention, so he coughed, “I’m sorry, what?”

“She uh,” Bill started, still looking nervous around Eddie, “she asked if we were going to the thing tomorrow night? Are you?”

“The thing?” Eddie asked. “What thing?” He racked his brain trying to think of any event he had been invited to to only forget about. Or thing he hadn’t been invited to directly, but overheard people talking about and sadly realized no one wanted him there - like some repressed Middle School shit.

“Oh, um:” Emily tilted her head to the side. Her eyes brown, lashes coated heavily in mascara. “It’s like, a thing the Faire sponsors. It’s an employees night at the Irish Pub in downtown Oster? We can’t drink,” she mentioned, looking around at Bill and Richie. Richie raised his eyebrows like he doubted that, and she blushed, “but there’s karaoke and it’s normally pretty fun.”

Eddie didn’t know when to cut her off, because he had been working there for three years, he was just forgetful. He knew exactly what she was talking about, in fact, their friend group, in mourning after everyone was eliminated from Assassin, spent a week and half practicing a karaoke song together. Which still sounded bad. Also that wasn’t how karaoke was supposed to work. “Oh?” Eddie asked, shoving his hands into his pockets. “That’s tomorrow?” He realized his friends must have just been a little distracted from things such as karaoke parties at the moment.

“Yup,” Richie replied indirectly, still not looking at him. He popped the ‘p’ loudly.

“Uh.” Eddie swallowed, now distinctly remember Noah saying they should go. Before, of course, his mother literally locking his bedroom door nightly. Not that that’s stopped him before. “Maybe?”

She looked back to Richie, who shrugged. “You heard the man.” He told her. Eddie frowned. Like he and Rich made plans solely based around the other… he meant, they used to. But not anymore. Or maybe they paused? He tried to catch Richie’s eye, but he was still decidedly looking away from him. Eddie bit his lip. He decided he was still mad at him, as much as that comment was making his stomach turn, and looked back to look for Stan and Mike.

“That was a really funny play you made this afternoon, Rich.” She told Richie, like anyone outside of their friend group called him Rich. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Teddy look so mad.”

“Eh,” he commented humbly, “it almost didn’t work. If that cat hadn’t been four inches to the left…”

She laughed. “Well, it was really funny, regardless.”

“Teddy shouldn’t be mad,” Richie commented lightly. “38th is a noble placing.”

“Hell,” Bill countered, “it’s better than you did any other years.” Bill pointed out.

“Truly.” Richie agreed, only sounding a little bit bitter at Bill pointing that out. “Not quite as good as your 52nd Title this year, oh Lord of Asassin-“ and then Rich made a guwaffing noise like Bill had smacked him in the tummy. Eddie rolled his eyes again, telling himself it wasn’t at Emily’s laugh at their dumb antics.

“Are you guys waiting for a ride, or?” She asked, looking around as the stragglers of the staff filtered out to their car. It was strange for Stanley Punctual Uris to leave them waiting out there. He squinted at the building harder, like he could see through it if he tried enough.

“Yeah.”

“Our Noble Steed, a 04’ corolla,” Richie joked, “awaits us.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Emily?” Bill asked gently in his girl-tender voice. Eddie rolled his eyes. He wondered if he had any interest in that poor girl at all before she showed interest in RIch.

“Y-yeah, Bill! I hope to see you guys at the thing, it’ll be really fun! And if anyone needs a ride, I drive, so-“ he supposed it would seem strange to an outsider, having an event on a Wednesday night. However, most higher ups and managers took off Thursday and Friday to accommodate their schedules to be there for the busy weekend rush, so it made sense in their world. Their jobs, most importantly Richie’s and Bill’s, were accommodated by people who were Faire vets that had moved into the “real world” and only wanted weekend work - so they could see their friends, more than anything else.

“Thanks, Emily. We-we’ll keep that in mind.” Eddie turned back to smile politely at the girl right before she turned and walked away. Then he heard a bang from behind him, and he jumped, and turned back.

Stan and Mike were walking out of the building, fast walking in the same direction but decidedly Not Together. Eddie’s mouth ran dry. It had been a year, but the time when Stan and Mike were arguing was one of the Worst TImes in the club Hall of Fame.

“Mike, are you-“ Bill called out to him, as he walked in a wide circle around the three of them, purposefully.

“No.” Mike held up a hand. “Nope. I’m sick of everything both being my responsibility and my fault.” He seemed ticked.

“Mike, buddy?” Richie called out to him, stepping up closer. “Are you o-“ but he didn’t finish, because Mike held up his hand between them, like a shield keeping them apart, and continued walking towards the truck.

Eddie turned, looking for Stan, and his heart dropped into his stomach. “Lads, I think we have bigger problems-“

“Lads?” Richie snorted, at the same time Bill had actually looked and seemed to share his sentiment,

“Oh, fuck.”

Stan was halfway to his car, and seemed to have no intention of stopping, and waiting for them.

“Stan!” Eddie called, beginning to run after him, “STAN.” Richie was just a step behind, but they were nowhere anywhere close to his car. They wouldn’t be able to dive into it if Stan was planning to drive off without them. And it seemed like that was exactly his plan.

“ONE DAY.” Stan shouted at them. “I TOLD you guys in the car that Pat was coming to lunch, and to not be FUCKING weird. But APPARENTLY ONE DAY that’s NOT all about YOU is too much, isn’t it?” Eddie stopped running, planting his on his hips. Richie looked near death behind him. “Get your own goddamn ride home.”

”S-S-STAN!” Bill called after him as he turned his car on, even though he was ridiculously far away and otherwise unable to stop him.

Richie looked at the front of his car, like he was considering standing in front of him until Stan cooled down. He would make it, if he ran, Eddie knew that. But he either seemed to decide Stan was justified in his anger, or didn’t want to risk Stan actually running him over, because he turned back to Bill.

Eddie looked just in time to seek Mike drive past Bill, ignoring him even though he had his windows down. Strangely, on top of his head, nestled into the curls, seemed to be Haggis. He was driving too quickly for Eddie to see clearly.

“WHAT NOW?” Richie called back to Bill, who seemed dumbfounded.

Eddie realized he did not want to stand out in the direct, harsh, beating sunlight, and so he walked towards Bill, towards a bench seated under a tree.

He realized Bill was talking, but he wasn’t listening, until he asked him for his opinion on what he just said by questioning “Eddie?”

“What?” Eddie asked, pressing his phone to his ear as it began to ring. “Oh, yeah, good luck getting home, guys.” He told them curtly, sitting on the bench.

“What?” Bill asked at the same time Richie questioned:

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

He answered them just before Noah picked up, smiling sweetly as he said “I have a boyfriend, who also has a car.”

“Hello, Eddie?”

“Hey, No-“ he sighed into the speaker in response.

He heard Richie swear in the background, and decided he didn’t care at all if they slept at the Faire that night, or more likely, had to call Maggie or Sharon to come get them.

“I’m really really sorry-“ he over-apologized, sinking into the bench.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“I’m alright, I was just wondering if you could come pick me up at work?” He sniffled, “there was a big misunderstanding with rides.”

“Hey, don’t apologize, it’s okay. Sure. I’m, like, ten minutes away but I’ll leave now.” Noah soothed. Eddie felt his chest decompress a little. Because he had burned a bridge before he even got to it, he realized, if that hadn’t worked. Like he had shot a flaming arrow into a bridge fifty yards ahead. Because if Noah couldn’t come, his mom couldn’t drive her car, and he’d have to suck it up and get one of his friends to come.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized again.

“Hey, what did I just say?”

“Can I buy you frozen yogurt?” Eddie asked, still feeling a little guilty that he had used his boyfriend like a pawn in a bad game of chess.

“Can we go to the place with the little cheesecake-“

“Cheesecake bites?” Eddie finished with him, and they laughed at Noah’s predictability. While he had no doubt he was coming, he felt his anxiety lessen when heard Noah’s car roar to life in the background. “Of course. Anywhere you want.”

“Okay, see you in ten.”

“Okay, bye.” He felt just a tiny bit smug when he hung up. He could feel his somewhat self-satisfied smirk stretch across his face, and he looked up, and thanked the tree for it’s shade while he waited. He exhaled, feeling a little bit, then, wishing he weren’t so rash and could think one thing through before he did. He sat up, scanning the lot for Richie and Bill, because if Noah was driving him, well, they did live in the same part of town. They could easily walk home from his. That is, until he saw Richie and Bill leaning on a blue Rogue. Richie’s smile was charming and heavy, and Eddie just knew it was Emily’s car.

* * *

 “Mom...Dad…” Richie took in a heaving breath, eyes shut but nostrils still inhaling the sweet scent of microwaved mashed potatoes. There were things his mother had time for. Mashing potatoes by hand was not one of them. “I like men.”

Believe it or not: the Earth, in fact, did not stop on his axis. Nor did the sun collapse. Richie thought that maybe somewhere way off a rather unimportant volcano erupted, but no one was none the wiser. He rather liked that thought, and chronicled it away to think about whenever he had done something dramatic.

Rather than half the planet being plunged into darkness for the foreseeable future, or everyone instantly freezing to death, he was met with two, not at all angry, but rather perplexed faces of his parents. “Really?” His dad asked, shoving a piece of ham into his mouth. His father had average teeth, he noted. After braces, so did Richie. Nothing fantastic. He felt rather jipped. If anyone was supposed to woo Kaspbrak with a set of astonishing mouth bones, he would assume it should have been the son of a dentist.

Saying nothing of what any of that mess was, Richie sighed. “Yeah.”

“Huh.?” Went frowned in, again not angry, consideration, sharing a look with his wife. She seemed to match his expression, but shrugged nonchalantly. He nodded, digging into the carrots Richie’s mother had grown in their garden. Home grown carrots? All the time in the world. Mashing potatoes? Tedious. Absolutely not. “Can’t say I saw that one comin’.” Went commented politely, before eating carrots. Eddie and Stan would be proud, Richie noted.

“What?” Richie asked, genuinely lost.  
  


”I mean,” his dad did that mouth wiping thing that dads so often did with napkins. Or it might not be a dad thing, maybe men over 40. Richie thought maybe he’d wake up at forty to have a burning desire to set down both utensils so he could wipe his mouth with both hands, only to return to eating. “Your one little friend. Yeah. Freddy?” He asked his mom, who sighed, because she knew Eddie’s name, moms always knew.

“Eddie, dad.”

“That one,“ he pointed at Richie with his fork. “Gay as blazes,” he waved around his new fork full of potatoes in a very enlightening pattern as to what exactly gay as blazes meant, “From, like, age 11. You?” His dad scoffed, eating the now very gay bite.

“What about me?” Richie inquired, verging on offended. 

His father shrugged. His glasses were slipping down his nose. “I just can’t picture you giving a shit about...interior design,” he explained, waving his hand around their dining room, “or...musical theatre.”

“Oh,” his mom let her fork clatter to her plate with a clang, looking disappoint ”Went!” She scolded at the exact same time Richie complained:

“Dad!”

“What!?” He asked incredulously, as if every man sucked a dick and then went to go pick out curtains at the Phantom of the Opera, “I’m just saying.”

”No,“ Richie told him firmly, deciding if he wanted another roll, “you’re resorting to using stereotypes.” He did. “Eddie hates musicals more than anyone I know.”

The week Eddie came out in high school was, from a distance without all the fighting, very funny. The musical kids acted like their entire High School had now entered Glee’s alternate universe. They asked him to join them in a song a lunch. He told them ‘if you sing some sort of gay song at me, i swear to god, i will throw every slice of pizza I can get my goddamned hands on at you,’ but in a nicer way. A more Eddie way. Or: public Eddie, anyway. Because Eddie enjoyed deceiving the general public into thinking he wasn’t the little terror he was.

He must have been smiling at the memory, because his dad was giving him an inquisitive look. His mom was smiling. They shared a knowing look. An annoying knowing look only parents had access to. “So, you’re dating him, now, is it?”

His dad asked tactlessly. And everyone wondered where Richie got it from.

“No!” Richie choked on his bread.  

“Then...who are you dating?” His mom asked, apparently unconcerned at his hacking.  
  


”No one.” He continued to choke. Death by carbs… the ultimate betrayal. 

”Then why bring it up?” His dad asked, finally sliding the only liquid he had, a glass of red wine, across the table to him. Richie chugged it to soothe his still angry throat, then pulled a face. Wine. Not his favorite. “You don’t run home announcing your love of pecan pie when you don’t even bring a pie.”

”Wait,” he set down the glass, still cringing, “There’s pie?” He asked his mom.

“...no, there’s no pie.”

“Wait, what were you saying about pie?” He asked his dad, who sighed heavily.

“It doesn’t matter,” He shook his head. “Anyway: today I had a little kid who-“ RIchie practically had whiplash from that moment: gay, death bread, pie, no pie: dentistry? What??

“Wait, wait wait:” Richie interrupted. This had hardly been the big deal he was expecting. He should have came out in high school. His ass would have loved a random gay musical serenade. “You’re...not mad?”

”You’re still going to college?” His dad asked plainly.

“Yeah.”

”You still have a job?”

“Yeah.”

”Then we’re good here. Maggie?”

His mother didn’t even look up from her plate. “I’d like it if you would clean your room,” she told him flatly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this entirely on a cellphone PLEse love me I love YALL I literally got so frustrated I rested up at one point and was ready to quit so I went back n reread ur comments from last chapter which fueled me like a mighty oasis in a desert or something idk. I LOVE YALL SM thank u for reading / commenting n encouraging ur truly the bomb.
> 
> Side note: I’m going back to name all the chapters ala on pointe bc I go back to reference what I said before n this bich too loooong and I keep getting confused about what happens when so if u have a good chapter name for a prior chap... hit me with it!!


	25. the musical episode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henlo... it is me. I be return. 
> 
> This chapter (only this chapter) has a playlist. The titles are unlisted, bc #surprises. Normally with fics x playlists it’s like eh. For this one chapter, I’d highly highly recommend you follow the playlist. The link is here ( https://drive.google.com/open?id=1NLWExE3dBqpX6rI-Hnviky0z-ChzMxJ9 ) and it cues you in the fic when to start the songs. The signal of the star symbols is when I suggest you either listen to the rest of the song (if you want to) or just turn it off if you hate it. 
> 
> Ok thanks I’m love y’all!

✯BILL - 1✯

 _I_ _met a man of 2 feet tall._

_This man was quite ambitious,_

_in a world that is so vicious to us all._

Bill woke up that morning in his bed, nearly having a war flashback of high school. He hated it. He hated that feeling in his stomach, sinking and uncomfortable, the back of his brain ringing just barely too loudly over the thought of “I do not want to get out of bed.” In the three years Bill had been working at the Faire, he had never missed a day of work. And he seriously considered rolling over, curling up, and going back to sleep.

He realized what he was hearing was Georgie’s music floating into his room. He was up early, and showering. It was odd, frankly. As soon as Georgie turned eleven, he became one of those kids that had to be dragged out of bed when the time came. His music was loud, but with a gentle melody and probably a ukulele strumming along. Bill didn’t know the difference between instruments, really. It was a gentle voice singing, probably some dude who looked like he hadn’t showered in three days.

Bill might have stayed in bed, he really might have, if he knew Jo wouldn’t have had his head. And his torso. Actually, no piece of his body would have been spared from her wrath, more than likely. Part of switching roles came with more responsibility, or something like that. It was easy enough to replace the guy who held a spool and rang people up. More difficult to replace an “actor,” as much as the word made Bill scoff; considering all he did was jump around with a sword in a mask, and then kiss Emily. He had done it for Beverly, and although Emily was hardly hard to look at and generally soft to the touch: his heart ached just a little bit every time he whisked off the mask and the princess staring up at him didn’t have that soft, mildly amused expression.

He looked at his clock. Richie would be there to pick him up, god help them, in 20 minutes. He sighed, but put his feet on the floor. Had to get up at some point in time.

_‘Cause I’m only as tall as my heart will let me be._

_And I’m only as small as the world will make me seem._

The repetitive song pattered to an end, Bill was realizing, but Georgie’s shower continued.

*~✯~*✯*~✯*

Richie’s mom drove a sedan from the 2000’s even though the Toziers could more than afford a new car.. It was old, and shitty, and loud. It would soon rumble, like a disgruntled bear or something, in Bill’s driveway. Bill privately thought that she never got a new car because she didn’t want to feel obligated to hand hers over to Rich. He just barely got to borrow it to take them to work.

Richie was sitting in his driver’s seat smoking out of the window. Apparently he had to resort to straight up grovelling to borrow the car. Bill thought with deep, deep regret, about the car currently sitting under a sheet in their backyard. His dad’s friend was going to pick it up in August. ✯BILL-2✯

_Coming out of my cage and I’ve been doing just fine._

Bill resisted the urge to roll his eyes so hard they examined his brain. He’d save anyone that pain. And besides that, Richie looked bad, and not in a ruff led Richie-esque way. He just looked tired and worried, hands shaking around his cigarette. He probably had coffee that morning. He was wearing a stained old hoodie and mismatched maroon sweats for their high school football team. Bill remembered Richie winning them at a game for getting the most people to make the most amount of cheering noise. The team still lost.

He understood his friend, though. Bill, too, was tired and worried that they had no friends but each other anymore. They’d never last. Or - even more worrying, they probably would, but would be fucking miserable the whole damn time.

“Okay, make a pact with me.” Bill told Richie as he slid in ungracefully to the passenger seat because he overestimated how big the step was.

“Morning, Sunshine,” Richie grumbled, stubbing out the cig on the side of the car. Bill rolled his eyes. He looked like he was ready to flick it, but he seemed to read Bill’s unapproving mind. He dropped it in the center console on top of his cellphone. Bill figured it was so he would remember to throw it out at the Faire.

“Good morning,” Bill droned on monotonously, “Light of my Life, apple of my eye, sweet peach to my cream, are you happy now?”  
Richie snorted, backing out of Bill’s driveway. He, as he always seemed to do on the rare occasion he drove, wrapped an arm around Bill’s seat. “If you’re gonna feel me up, take me out for a float first.” Bill told him, checking his phone again for notifications that he knew wouldn’t be there but apparently Bill was an expert in getting his own feelings hurt.

Richie snorted. “Two people asked yesterday if we’re fucking.” He told Bill, car now firmly on the street.

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I so _graciously_ let them know you are one _hell_ of a bottom.”

“Am I at least a power bottom?”

“And tell them you generate all of the power? No.” Richie quoted their favorite TV show to watch high with a snicker. Bill laughed too, pulling out his phone to check to see if any of their friends had subtweeted them yet. Eddie was often the most guilty, but Mike definitely threw shade over twitter in the past. His notifications were empty.

Richie had tweeted that morning, “Just woke up! Gonna be a great day!” With a photo of him awkwardly cropped and holding an apple. Bill snorted, and liked the tweet. “What the fuck are you doing on Twitter, man?”

“Oh, you like it?” Richie smirked at him. Bill opened his page, and he had tweeted again, a plain photo of Bill’s house. “Picking up pals is a great way to start the day! #carpool #savethearth #andyourwallets.” Bill laughed, liking that one, too. The tweets had gained small smatterings of likes, but none from anyone they cared about.

“I thought it would be funny, tweeting like a dad all day.” Bill didn’t want to agree verbally, so he settled for laughing and nodding. Richie still seemed smugly pleased. He shifted back into his seat, one hand on the wheel. The song faded out to an end. “What’s your pact? My knife is on my keys.”

“Why would we need a knife?”

“Blood oath, duh.”

“Ew. No.”

“It’s your fucking pact.””

“Oh, I was just saying that you have to agree to hit me in the head with a large rock if we go to the Faire and everyone’s still mad at us.” Bill told him factually, scrolling down Instagram and resisting the urge to like the ridiculously pretty girl’s photos on the explore tab. Bev had once told him that people could see his likes, and that looked creepy. Bad look all around.

“Okay, fair, but one problem:” Richie countered, frowning in consideration.

“What would that be?” Bill asked, rewatching a loop of a happy dog with it’s face out of a window because he deserved it.

“I doubt I can lift a large rock.” Richie told him plainly. Bill snorted, and glanced over at his best friend. He had shoulders that were maybe a little smaller than Bill’s, but was hardly overly slender. He had a soft torso in general. The hoodie might have added to that, though. “Can you drop it on yourself and I will be as supportive as possible?”

“You used to carry around Eddie.” Long days at the Quarry would have Eddie half-jogging half of the time to keep up with those gifted with longer legs. He used to bitch and complain about his legs hurting, and then smile smugly down at them from his position on Richie’s back. That had been a long time ago, though. Richie was smiling fondly, probably at the memory.

“...yeah.” Richie replied quietly after a moment.

….yeah.

“You think they’re gonna be mad at us?” Bill asked, biting on his thumb. He knew Stan would hate it, and he could see his angry face. He could easily picture it, sitting in Stan’s car, where they should have been in that exact moment.

“Yup.”

“Even Mike?”

“Yup.”

“Fuck.”

“We could…” Richie squinted at the road in his thick glasses, but his thinking-squint, not his time-to-go-to-the-optometrist squint. “Get him a present? Take it from an expert,” Richie caught his eye in the rear-view mirror, and he winked. And then he made a risky left turn. Bill’s stomach lurched, but they survived. Richie was a smart, capable driver, who chose to drive like a dumbass when it suited him. “Mike forgives you and the rest isn’t that far off.

“What would he even want though?” Bill asked, clicking on Mike’s blurry, poorly edited Instagram he always forgot about it. Mike was remarkably unmaterialistic. Buying him gifts was a nightmare.

“We could get him something for his pets. Get Haggis a collar or something.” Richie suggested, not trying to sound ridiculous, but he managed it anyway. His head was tilted. His hair was rustling against his shoulder. He still looked exhausted.

“Do hedgehogs have collars?” Bill asked.

“Why do we need to base Haggis off of everyone else?” Richie replied, looking mildly offended. He glanced over at Bill, then back to the road quickly. “He’s his own man.”

“He has quills, Rich.” Bill reminded him, locking his phone and setting it down on his lap. His jeans had a stain and it wasn’t even 9 a.m. Fuck. “I think they’d get in the way.”

“We’ll put holes in the collar.” Richie shrugged, like that was a normal suggestion.

“That’s fucking stupid.”

“That’s a fucking fashion statement.”

They were quiet for a moment, song clashing between them loudly as the singer continued to list things over and over as if that was a clever lyric pattern. Bill couldn’t insult that to his face. There was very little Richie took seriously, but his taste in music was apart of that. Instead, Bill just let the song play, and said nothing.

Solutions didn’t necessarily come easy to Bill. In all honesty, he was starting to think nothing ever came easily to anyone. But he normally at least had an idea of what to do. Schemes weren’t hard for him to come up with on any other day. But on that particular day, he was coming up empty on even a theory. Richie looked similarly stumped. Bill’s heart sank into his stomach, nestling itself peacefully into his intestines or whatever the fuck was down there.

“Dude, what are we gonna do?” Bill asked finally. He looked at Richie. His lips were bleeding from the biting, and his tan-ish grey-ish dark circles were prominent against his pale skin. He tapped his fingers along to the beat of the song.

“Billy, my boy:” Richie bit his lip again. He leaned his elbow on the window. He pressed a knuckle into his lower lip, staring out to the side.

“Watch the fucking road.”

“It’s not going anywhere.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Did I promise it would?”

“Your promises are worth about a buck fifty anyway.”

Richie laughed, but it was half hearted. It wasn’t quite from the chest, his eyes didn’t really crinkle. Something anxious was resting on the tip of his tongue, Bill could tell.

“Ugh.” Richie sighed, letting whatever he was gonna say fall away. He bit his knuckle. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, sounding like he was admitting something private. Bill sat back in his seat. “It’s just fucking annoying,” he admitted, around his poor, spit-slick knuckle. “Like: I get it. We’re pieces of shit.”

“Hey speak for yoursel-“

Richie looked over at him with a flat, half lidded expression. He rolled his eyes. “Anyway, _we’re_ pieces of shit. If someone fucks up, like nine times out of eight, it’s us. But this is the one damn time where we didn’t do shit, and everyone is expecting us to apologize anyway.”

Bill was quiet for a long moment, letting the song play out between them over the rumble of the engine. He stared out at the passing trees, wondering why the route felt so unfamiliar in that car. He supposed when a routine was interrupted, it made everything feel strange. “Do we?” He said finally.

Richie sighed, a genuine, yet un-theatrical, sigh. “I don’t fucking know, man. Maybe.”

“We shouldn’t have to,” Bill stated.

“I agree,” Richie replied earnestly. “But like. Does it fucking matter anymore? There’s forty two days left.” He bit his lip, pensieve and distant.

“Until we help Bev and Stan move into New York?”

“Oh, uh.” He swallowed. “I dunno what day we’re doing that.” He rubbed his nose awkwardly. “A few days before? I know that that week, on Friday is when me and Ben move in. So like, 45 days for us.”

And Bill opened his mouth to reply, but he clamped it shut, because again: he wasn’t starting a fight. But the only thing in between those dates was the day he and Eddie moved into U.S.M. There was so much to say about Richie using Eddie’s move in date as his Doomsday countdown, but none of it was necessary.

Instead of talking, he just reached across the console and turned the volume knob up a little higher. Even as it piled on, as shitty day after shitty day came and went, he became more and more confident:

there was absolutely nothing a good song couldn’t fix.

*~✯~*✯*~✯*

✯BILL - 3✯

No matter what was going on his life, or hell, even just the world, the Renaissance Faire stayed almost relentlessly dedicated to being weird. Two middle aged women passed by him, drunk as skunks that had better social lives than Bill, and wearing fairy costumes that looked like they had seen better days. On the other side of him was two kids in movie realistic Deadpool costumes on. Swords and all. The man with the enormous face mask on played enormous bells, or chimes, or whatever the fuck they were. Bill was pretty sure he was playing a Christmas song. It was July. Nothing ever made sense, and it was never required to.

However, in the center of it all was the absolute Master of Making Sense from Complete Nonsense, was Mike. He was standing in their break room/ dressing rooms. He was visibly sweaty, already working too hard and not getting enough credit, staring down at his clipboard. He had one hand on his head set, responding intently to someone talking over the earphone.

“Michael Hanlon,” he wrapped an arm around his friend, kissing his cheek in a warm way, the way he knew Mike secretly enjoyed.

“Bill.” He patted him placatingly. Although he smiled, as if he couldn’t stop himself from doing so, he didn’t look up from his board.

“I meant to ask: who’s your target in assassin, now?” He, Stan and Richie were dangerously close to beating his record. If it had to be one of them, he wanted it to be Mike. His money would be on Stan, considering he was locked in a closet for 70% of his workday, but he was rooting for Mike. Honestly, anyone but Rich. That fucker would be smug about it until the day they died.

“Uh. McDuffin, I think.”

“The guy from… which one is that?”

“What?” Mike stepped away, detangling himself from Bill. “No, not you, sorry.” He said into his headset. “I’m talking to Jane about a vendor.” He explained to Bill hastily, already beginning to walk away. Mike paused and turned back. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine, I just-“

“I’m sorry, man, I’m really busy today. I’ll catch ya later.” He turned and walked away, already spitting information into his little headset.

And the worst part was, Bill believed him. Bill fully believed that Mike had something else to be doing, something related to his job which they paid him to do. The thing about it was: Mike had never said that before. Mike had always made time. Bill never stopped to consider just how bad he had probably inconvenienced him in the past.

Even then, he realized he was feeling bad for himself for being bad to Mike which was all sorts of twisted selfish, and he groaned, and laid across the nearest table. He pressed his back against the feeble plastic, and his palms over his eyes.

“Denbrough.” He heard a voice that sat right in between the tides of stern and warm sand.

“Hello,” he replied dully, not removing his hands from his eyes. The table dug uncomfortably into his back, but he had committed to the scene now.

“What are you doing?” He recognized the voice of his boss, Jo, and decided she could deal with him laying on that table until it was his turn to walk on to stage and do essentially nothing but stand there.

“Wallowing.” He told her.

“Interesting venue choice.” She tapped her hand by his head.

“This is the table of w-wallowing.” He informed

“Is it?”

“This is where people come to wallow.” He said confidently. “Until we die.”

“Alright drama queen,” she grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, hoisting him up with one very surprisingly strong arm. He floundered, flailing, before re-establishing his balance, seated on the table. His boss was standing in front of him, hair in an enormous bun. She looked both amused, and annoyed, and the smallest bit concern, “what’s wrong?”

“My friends are mad at me,” he pouted, in a manly way. The manliest.

“Have you apologized?”

“....maybe.”

She rolled her eyes. “Moping’s gonna get you exactly nowhere in life, Denbrough.” She told him curtly. “A well timed apology can get you everywhere.”  
Bill knew that information, he really did, but he couldn’t force his body to accept it, as he sighed and said “yeah, well-”

“Sorry, my scheduled forty seconds of time for Denbrough is nearly up,” Jo told him hastily, flipping through her own clipboard. “Are you going to the bar tonight? I came to give you your entry bracelet.”

He knew that they did this. They gave everyone on staff their entry bracelet. Lime green for everyone over 21, orange for minors. Last year, they all had their orange bracelets on in Mike’s living room, when Richie walked in, laughed, and dropped a roll of the lime on to his coffee table. Bill still had no idea where he got them.

“I don’t know, Jo, what’s even the poi-”

“Mhmm.” She cut him off, slamming a bracelet into his chest. Her eyes were sharp, already moving on to the next task. She was focused on a kid booking it through the property. “Hey, Fiore!” She yelled. “ Slow your ass down, what is this?? Cool runnings?!” Fiore turned around, tripping on his feet. He looked barely apologetic, but he waved nonetheless. Jo smiled cheerfully, waving as well. “Fucking idiot deserves to break his foot,” she muttered to Bill in juxtaposition to her outward demeanor.

Bill choked on a surprised laugh.

Jo turned back to him, “so I’ll see you there?” She asked, not really looking at him, tending to her clipboard.

“Well… I just think that maybe-”

“Bill. I don’t A. Have time for your whiny teenage whatever. And B. I don’t really care if you go or not. I plan on being hammered and singing Whitney within twenty minutes with my friends. But I do know that it’ll probably be more fun than whatever you’re planning on doing at home by yourself feeling bad for you.”

“But, I-”

“Yeah sure, whatever. Got a goat to catch.” She told him quickly, already pressing her finger into her headset as she turned and walked away. Bill didn’t even know if she was talking about a real goat. He probably would never find out.

*~✯~*✯*~✯*

* * *

 ✯BEV - 1✯

_Sometimes, I still see her._

_My mother: the dreamer._

_She’d say nothing’s impossible, child._

No matter how shitty the night was before, how shitty she felt, Bev couldn’t help her smile at the image in her kitchen.

It would be an image of domestic bliss, speakers gently swaying some theatre tune (that Bev didn’t know but Clara obviously knew by heart) out into the world. She sang along, somewhat failing to match the soft tone of the tune, but getting the heart. Clara always had the heart. She pushed pancakes, Bev could tell by the smell, around in the griddle, with a spatula shaped like Mickey Mouse’s hand.

The only disruptions in the image of bliss were Clara’s hair, her natural, actual hair, that was dyed a fire-engine red color, although that was liable to change at any given moment, teased to high heavens, and piled on to her head with a clip, and perhaps her robe that certainly made an attempt at being respectable night-wear, but was definitely purchased from some sleazey lingerie shop or another.

_So sure, so connected..._

_To those little believers inside,_

_May we all be so lucky._

“Morning,” Bev greeted amusedly, leaning on her door frame.

Clara jumped, flicking herself with grease, which caused her to curse. “Aw, fuck, morning sweetheart! Shit on a stick.” She pressed her forearm with a tea towel with Jack Skellington’s face on it. “I saw you were home, so I thought I’d make you breakfast in bed. Didn’t work. Obviously.” Clara grinned, pressing a walnut into a particular place. “When do my plans ever?”

_Dreams come and they go._

Bev smiled, grabbing some blueberries off their cramped counter, “they don’t need to.” She told her aunt earnestly, popping the berry in her mouth.

_But hold them and keep them._

_And know that you need them._

_When your breaking point’s all that you have._

_A dream is a soft place to land._

Clara clicked off the music on her phone. She flipped the last of the pancakes, and seemed satisfied with the results of her labor. She clicked the stove top off shortly after.

*✯~*✯*~✯*

“Blueberry and walnut for you,” she told Bev, plopping the last pancake on to a plate. They were a little misshapen. But they were good. They’d taste just the same. “M’n’m and peanuts for me,” she told her, grabbing a warming plate out of the oven. Bev grinned, shoving some stuff off the stool nearby, so she could sit.

“Whipped cream?”

“Of course,” Clara grinned, grabbing the can from the fridge and shutting it with her hip. “What are we, animals?” She tossed the can to Bev, who caught it with one hand. She opened her phone with the other, connecting to the bluetooth speaker sitting a few feet away.

“Looks like you picked a good day to stay home,” Clara told her, whistling at the window as the skies crackled. “Starting to rain.” They left the window open. The cool breeze brought some much needed air into their ac-less apartment.

“I don’t mind a good summer storm… I just feel like shit.” Bev told her. She frowned at her music library. She was itching to hear new music, but couldn’t seem to make any that she enjoyed… appear. She didn’t know why, but it was a frustrating cycle of craving but not knowing what for. “But emotional shit. I’m… physically fine. It’s okay, really.”

“Your emotions are a part of you, Sweet Pea,” Clara pressed a kiss into the side of her head. “That’s still feeling like shit.”

Bev hadn’t even realized a few moments had passed in silence as she scrolled through her phone, looking for a song to play. Normally it would be filled with chatter from Clara’s end, about x, y, z in the government or drag queens or something. It was just the clatter of her fork on the plate and rain pattering in the distance.

“Are you okay?” Bev asked her aunt, feeling guilty for not asking more often.

“Do you remember Grandma at all?” Clara asked her quietly.

Bev picked a song, the top of her morning playlist, because Clara’s mouth was pressed in a solemn line. She turned the volume down on the speaker. They weren’t always great at talking about feelings. When they had first moved in together, Clara used to drop Bev off at the therapist more often than not. Clara clearly had things to say.

✯BEV - 2✯

“Uh,” Bev swallowed. Because she didn’t, not really. She had died when Bev was very, very small. She remembered she had this cup shaped like a lion, and she would always give Bev apple juice in it. But that was about all she could come up with.

“It’s okay.” Clara told her.

“Mom was a single parent before that was even a thing. If I think it sucks now… psh,” Clara laughed a little bit, stabbing at her pancakes, “at least when I get called a whore it’s for completely different reasons.”

_Don't let your heart grow cold_

_I will call you by name_

_I will share your road_

Clara put her chin in her palm, more pushing food around her plate than attempting to eat it. Bev felt uncomfortable, hands twisting together on her lap, because she wasn’t exactly sure how Clara would like her to react to this whole thing.

“But she worked so, so hard. She did everything she could to get us stable… and still volunteered at the hospital. Elfie used to make me so mad, because she clearly resented Ma’...” Bev blinked. She hadn’t heard her mother’s name in a very, very long time. Even in therapy, they were always talking about her dad. Not her mom who just sat there… and looked away. Her mom who said nothing about the pain, and nothing about Bev.

“Me and her were never close,” Clara admitted, looking over at Bev, speaking of her sister, who was many years older than her. “I know it doesn’t make it right- I shoulda’ been around more. Or something... I’ll never forgive myself for it, Bev.”

“You don’t have anything to forgive, Ange.” Bev told her quietly, feeling her chest crumple up, wanting to fold into herself. Curl into a protective ball.

Her mom and dad were so estranged from everyone in their lives because they pushed them away. Bev wanted to think that that’s how the whole thing managed to go on for so long. She couldn’t help the nagging feeling that it really got dragged out for so long because she was a coward.

“Elfie, she. Well…” Clara began, and although she seemed to know where she was going, she was traveling without a map, or a clue, of how to get there. I think she was just so, so scared, of ending up like Mom. She married that man when she was 22, and I think she thought it was her only shot at what she considered a decent life.” Clara told Bev in a hushed, private tone.

Bev swallowed, thinking of how many hours she spent ruminating, promising herself that she’d never end up like her mother, who she resented. She set her cutlery down, but didn’t have anything to say. Not anything important.

“The sedatives were… hell, I think they were the only way she knew how to cope. The women in this family have been known to… shove it all down, Bev.” Clara told her, as if she was finally stumbling into the finish line after the crowds had all gone home. “It’s the little things that tumble into the big things that get tucked away until you can’t take it anymore.”  
Bev laughed, her body chalking up any attempt to keep things light-hearted. It was hollow. “I think a fight with my friends is very, very different than me and my parents.” And Clara didn’t seem to have a reply for that. Bev thought that maybe that wasn’t what Clara was expecting her to say, that she had said the wrong thing. Bev had a talent for that.

“There’s never a bad time…” Clara finally replied, after several moments of the song playing on softly against the rain, “to say what you mean.”

“I want to forgive her,” Bev said quickly, interrupting Clara just slightly. “One day. I do.” And once again, she seemed to surprise her aunt. She didn’t look at Bev, Bev didn’t look at her. Bev was staring at their odd wall clock shaped like a rooster.

“You don’t have to.” Clara told her after a moment. “You really, really don’t.” Clara didn’t seem to be particularly hungry anymore. “Either of them.”

Bev didn’t know how to reply. She felt like this is the part where she should cry about it and they’d hug and one day she’d find it in her heart to forgive them both. That it was necessary for moving on. But she just stared at the half eaten pancake and thought that her heart was doing it’s literal job of pumping blood to her body and anything that might one day be in her metaphorical heart was already there. And she was moving on, with or without forgiveness. That was how time worked, it went on, with or without you. And maybe her aunt was right, that she had gotten numb to it all. And maybe one day it would pour out. But it wasn’t today.

_And I will learn, I will learn to love the skies I'm under._

*✯~*✯*~✯*

And maybe, she had earned the right to never think about her parents again. Nothing behind her could do anything for her, anyway.

“I love you,” she told Ange honestly. “I think I’m going to go lay down.” She told her politely, picking up her phone from the counter. Ange kissed her shoulder as she slid off her stool.

“I love you.” She heard her aunt say just as she shut her door.

And she did so, laying back on her quilt of mis-matched fabrics, staring up at the mural of horses she and Ange started on her ceiling and got bored with half way through. And thought about her parents. And her dad. And that forgiving him could just be someone else’s job, because nothing anyone could ever do would give her back who she might have been.

She slipped her headphones over her ears, and let someone else sing for her.

 ✯BEV - 3✯

_Some say: in life, you’re gonna get what you give._

_But some things, only God can forgive._

*✯~*✯*~✯*

* * *

 It was stupid.

It was so, so fucking stupid that the amount of stupid it was just washed over Mike in guilty tides of guilt or something. He didn’t know. It was almost as stupid as that metaphor.

He thought the that thing he hated about being 18 the most was the feeling of lack of control. Over his life. Over his own damn emotions. He could rationalize in the reasonable part of his brain six ways from sunday just how dumb his own emotions were. But he couldn’t stop being angry at his friends.

✯MIKE - 1✯

“MICHAEL, HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU-” and his family. He had been told exactly twice that he had to feed the chickens before he could leave that night to go to the party he didn’t want to go to with people he didn’t want to see but felt obligated to anyway. Which was why he was putting on gloves and wellies and grabbing the cannister but apparently none of that was happening fast enough for his Granddad.

Maybe he was just angry at life.

Or hated chickens.

He wasn’t sure.

He couldn’t help but think that the rustling of the wind in the trees while Billie crooned through the open window of his kitchen should have been relaxing, but it wasn’t. It was just unnerving. The wind was making the sweat on his neck cool, and the chickens bocked demandingly as he filled their feeders. He hated the feeling swirling around in his chest, the one that made him kick at the door with frustration instead of opening it calmly and the one that made him want to just knock the feeders over. He thought he was happy. Happy people don’t let one telling off by Stan Uris make them this angry. Mike had assumed he was happy for so long he wasn’t even sure what happy was supposed to be anymore.

_For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop_

_Here is a strange and bitter crop._

*✯~*✯*~✯*

That thought ruminated, rolling around in his head as he drove to the karaoke night for no reason other than he felt like he was supposed to. He realized it might just be a funk, as it wasn’t a great day at work: a little lonely, and then the rain came through and brought some very unhappy guests as if he controlled the weather.

The scariest thing about facing the idea that he might not be happy, is he had no idea what would make him be. His friends back? Even if he had to compromise and apologize? College? Even though it felt like a shot in the dark while he had no idea what he wanted to do in his life?

He thought he was too young for all of this.

He sat, car parked, headphones over his ears, and deeply considered just turning around and going home.

✯MIKE - 2✯

_Round the city_

_Round the clock_

_Everybody needs you_

_No you can't make everybody equal_

He compromised by going in, but left his headphones on. When he walked into the bar, little orange wrist band shining against his dark skin, it was a little late. Everything had already begun to swing. In fact, as he stepped in, some people were already descending the steps to leave. The white collar types upstairs, of course.

The bar was split into a trendy loft, he had been told a few years back. The second floor had big glass windows that overlooked the first floor, but was decently soundproof on the inside. It was the more formal restaurant, and the bar seated casual diners during the restaurant’s more casual hours. The bar spanned the left wall, there was a small stage in the middle for karaoke, and abundant tables and bar stools. It was all-around dark, and a little grimey down there, but no one seemed to mind. Certainly not as grimey as their work environment could be. The entire space had been rented for employees of the faire that night. Everyone who worked on the grounds at the faire stayed on the ground floor. The suits from the office went up the stairs, into the glass doors, that overlooked the party. And it seemed to suit everyone just fine.

He slipped his headphones off before the song finished, feeling like an asshole, and realizing he was making direct eye contact with someone. His ears were quickly assaulted by terrible karaoke music. But, hey, that’s showbiz.

*✯~*✯*~✯*

Already definitely a little bit drunk, lime green bracelet on his wrist, was Rich. He was sitting at a table with a few other people Mike hadn’t known him to hang out with before, but everyone who didn’t know Richie at all loved the idea of him, so he was obviously involved in the happenings. He had his yellow cap on backwards, and pushed back from the table.

He tapped his lap eagerly, as if he expected Mike to come sit on it.

Mike shook his head.

Richie tapped more eagerly.

“I’m not sitting on your lap, bro.” Mike told him at plain volume from 10 feet away in a crowded bar. Richie momentarily cupped his ear, but then resumed the tapping.

Mike sighed, trudged forward, dragging his feet like he walked through thick mud. “Rich,” he told his sweatier-than-he-expected-friend. “I’m not sitting on your lap.”

A momentary genuine emotion of hurt flecked across Richie’s eyebrows, before it was quickly replaced with a much more put-on sadness. “Mike,” he wrapped his arms around his middle in a gesture that a year ago wouldn’t have been strange, but had been absent in his behavior in the last few weeks, “do you haaaate me?” He drawled, tilting his chin up on his stomach. Mike was pissed for two reasons: one, he didn’t want to deal with that at the moment, and two: Richie had become a lot more handsome, and Mike didn’t even notice. His jaw was less boyish, and more angular, and his hair was in his eyes in a way that might almost be appealing to someone.

“I don’t.” Mike replied honestly, but with no tenderness to his voice. “Stan blamed me for your actions, and it made me mad. I’m not your babysitter, Richie.”

“You kinda are, though.” Richie replied in a more honest tone than he probably intended on.

“I-” Mike stalled, “I hate how right you are about that.” He pat Richie’s head. It was so difficult to be mad at him and Mike had no idea why.

“Do you need me to apologize to Stan? I will.” Rich mumbled into his stomach, “I’ll let him hit me with his car if he wants.” The heat was already building around Mike’s middle uncomfortably, due to the stuffy bar jampacked with people. Mike didn’t have it in him to pry Rich off of him.

“You’d die over this?

Richie laughed into his stomach. “Please, Mike. It’s Stan. It’d be a lovetap, at actual most.” He saw Lloyd stumble on to the stage, announcing that they were going to begin doing karaoke. That made Mike cringe before anyone did anything. He thought about leaving again, because he had officially shown his face for two minutes. And then, he saw Bev, surrounded by a gaggle of girls she worked with.

✯MIKE - 2✯

“There she is,” Mike sighed in relief. They hadn’t talked the past two days, but for no reason. He had no reason to be upset with her. He didn’t think she was upset with him. Her hair was off her shoulders in a swooping ponytail, hair falling into her eyes. She was making her politely-interested for the sake of it face. His heart was light, and fond.

“Who?” Rich’s eyes perked up with interest, looking out where Mike was. “Oh,” He realized. “She’s mad at me.” His eyes drifted away. “Who isn’t.”

_What started out as friendship has grown stronger,_

_I only wish I had the strength to let it show_

Mike pat his shoulder, “you probably deserve it” he joked lightly.

Richie didn’t take that joke smoothly. He stood quickly, eyes flicking up to the second floor. Mike didn’t see at what. Whatever it was, Richie looked away quickly. He downed his drink, dropping it back on to the table with a smack. “Fuck off, Mike.” His eyes looked back to Bev, seemingly anywhere but Mike, “you think _you’re_ sick of everything being your fault?” Mike blinked in surprise, but not too much: drunk Richie was always a moody Richie.

_And I'm getting closer than I ever thought I might..._

_And I can't fight this feeling anymore_

“I’m going to go smoke,” he told the table he was sitting at. “This song fucking sucks,” he turned, and fled the bar, pushing through people like a man who just doesn’t care, even though some of the patrons of the table had stood to go with him. Mike sighed, and stared after him longer than he should have.

“Hey, Bev-“ Mike pushed through the crowd. He cringed, and apologized. Someone stepped on his toes. His pinky cried out in protest, but he wiggled his way through. He was already sweating, how was that possible? “Bev!”

Bev’s head whipped in his direction. He smiled, feeling tension roll out of his body. Then he realized she didn’t look very much like Bev. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. She looked sunken and sad, hair pushed off her forehead by a headband he had never seen before.

“Mike, hey.” She stared around, out at the room. “Have you seen Stan?”

And Mike hadn’t, not since their fight the day before. “Uh… no,” he looked around too. Trying to be helpful in some capacity. She squinted out at the room, not even looking up to meet his eye. She wasn’t very dressed up, but Mike thought she still looked charming. She was wearing a light yellow crop top under a pair of baggy overalls. The sunny outfit didn’t match her demeanor. She practically radiated anxiety.

“I just came so I could…” she rubbed her eye with the heel of her palm. “Apologize? I don’t know.” She almost laughed, dropping her hand away from her face. “I can’t believe I went after Richie,” she rolled her eyes, wheezing a little. But her laugh was cold and harsh, and it was at herself. “Never learn, Mike. I never learn.” She finally looked up at him, eyes full and dark. She smudged her mascara under her eye by accident.

“Hey,” he chided her gently. He brought his thumb up to her under eye, letting the rest of his hand rest on his face. He tried to softly remove the smudge. “Eddie shouldn’t have yelled at him. Bill shouldn’t have gone off after him. Richie shouldn’t have stormed out. You cared. You always care, Bev.” He smiled at her, closed mouth but still feeling his eyes crinkle up at the corners. “No sin in that.”

She softened, eyes gentling, but still worriedly scanning the room. She wrapped her hands around his wrist, hand still resting on her cheek. “Thanks, Mike.” He started to withdraw his hand. She grabbed his palm, and kissed it. “I still want to find him and apologize, though.”

“Yeah, I get it,” he dropped his hand to her shoulder. He looked behind him again, but couldn’t distinct any one person more in the crowd than he could before. “Just as long as you acknowledge it’s not your fault.” He gripped her shoulder, “because it’s not.” He reminded her.

“Thanks, Mike.” She told him, although she seemed distant and sad. “I’m gonna try and find him. Hey, if you want to drink,” she gestured to her own orange band, “I’ve heard Richie has greens through the grapevine.” She pat his shoulder, and then pushed past.

“Thanks- I’ll-” he said to her back, as she pushed away, “...see if I can find him.”

*✯~*✯*~✯* 

* * *

 Stan hadn’t any idea how much he’d hate having an empty car. He really hadn’t had one since the day he bought it. He tried to make it have some form of satisfying noise. He fiddled with various radio channels that morning, tried calling Bev- which went to voicemail eventually, but nothing was satisfying.

The day had been oddly silent all day. Pat hadn’t been into work. He counted with his boss, headphones in and nothing playing.

He hadn’t texted her. He was such a coward but he didn’t know what to say. “Sorry my friends are freaks… and that I misplace judgements too quickly? I don’t hate you now in fact I think about my face kissing your face, amongst other things, nearly constantly. It’s honestly edging on infuriating.”

Yeah, no. Absolutely not.

And he never wanted to seem like a person who hated technology for the sake of it, yell-derly for lack of a better term, but he grew more and more disillusioned with social media in his solitude. Or his phone in general. He didn’t want to text her, he wanted to talk to her.

Which is why he went out on a limb that she might be at this dumb fucking karaoke night, and got in his empty car again.

✯STAN - 1✯

Stan was never a fan of not having control. He had never once met anyone who made him feel like he had no choice but to stumble out of his thoughts and into the world around him. Like he’d be missing out on everything he ever wanted if he didn’t.

_Falling for your eyes, but they don’t know me yet._

He stared at the obviously busy bar, gripped his keyS as they served as the literal reminder he could, in fact, leave at any moment, and trudged inside.

_Kiss me like you wanna be loved._

Stan had perhaps underestimated how easy it’d be to find one relatively short girl in a very crowded bar.

And with that dumb fucking song playing, he kept seeing her everywhere. In every slightly twisted too-high smile. In every curl, or dark eyelash. Motherfuck. His heart was pounding. He didn’t pound. It was distinctly un-him, a throbbing heart and keen ears. He saw Bill, making a really dumb bet by a pool table, and steered clear in another direction.

“Stanley!” He heard a voice from behind him. Everytime he went looking for something; it seemed to find him.

“Patty!” He turned, and there she was, in all her full-skirted, shiny-cheeked glory. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Oh?” She seemed surprised. “How’d the things with your friends go?”

‘What friends?’ Stan thought to himself dramatically, ‘they’re all dead to me.’

“Fine.” He replied, wanting to inch forward and grab at her wrist, touch any piece of her, as he had longed to do for far too long of a time to not act upon it at all. “I wanted to talk to you about-” he reached for her. She slid to the side.

“Yeah! Sure. Anytime! I just told Meghan” who the fuck is Meghan, “that I’d braid her hair in the lady’s room. But I’ll find you later?” She told him, already side-stepping, slipping into the crowd, away from him.

If Stan had been able to get in a single word, the only thing he would have said was not to go. 

_This feels like falling in love._

_Falling in love._

 *✯~*✯*~✯* 

“Stan!” Two regrettable hours later, Stan was still there, because he wasn’t hanging out with his friends, and he still struggled to non-rudely dismiss himself from gatherings with aquaintances. He had known most of the guys sitting around the table for a few years, but didn’t particularly enjoy any of them. Nor their egging on of one of their friends to have the balls to get up on stage and sing some sort of karaoke nonsense. Stan had had well enough of that the past two years, and hardly needed a revisit to old stories.

“Yeah?” He looked up. A girl he had met several times, but her name was slipping his mind, was above him. Her blonde hair was slipping out of her braid. Despite the orange band on her wrist, she seemed to be a drink or two in.

“Marsh is looking for you.”

Stan raised his eyebrows. “Where?”

“She’s outside. Can you give her this?” She held out a pink water bottle. Stan eyed it suspiciously. Bev was hardly ever dedicated to hydration. Bev fuelled herself with ice coffee and cheetos. He took it from her anyway. He, un-suspiciously, took a sniff of it. Vodka. Stan knew it. And then he took a swig, because he realized the song they were encourging their white, pasty friend to sing was Baby Got Back, and he deserved the booze.

“Well, gentleman, I should-”

“Are you going to find Beverly?” One of them asked. “Where you’ going?”

“...to find Beverly, yes.”

“Dude,” the kid wearing a Pokemon shirt from Sears, and probably considered it one of his nice t-shirts, leaned in. “I think she might be into me. Could you, like, ask her?”

Stan took another sip. “No.” Politeness be damned. “Later, guys.”

“Haha-” someone was straight-up laughing into the mic on the karaoke stage. “I owe a little-” Oh God, Stan knew that voice. That was a voice of a Richie without supervision, more than likely cross-faded...on a microphone… in front of all of their bosses. Richie hiccuped. Stan took another swig, and grimaced. Lighter fluid. It was truly lighter fluid.

“I owe a b-beaufitul ballad to Miss. Margi- wait.” He paused from his near-declaration of love to the elderly woman sitting at a table near the front row. “No.” His smile had turned straight up goofy, as his eyes landed on something in the dark back of the room. Stan, from his vantage point and height, couldn’t see what it is. “I owe you-” he pointed at the figure in the dark. “A song,” he swayed, looking delighted with himself.

The girl, Stan thought her name might be Emily, sitting at the front booth, with the karaoke set up in her hand, looked confused as to what she was supposed to play.

“Gimme,” Richie commented childishly, scrawling over to her and flopping over her shoulder to make his selections. “Don’t worry. We-we are going with a vocal track, folks. I’m not gonna make you listen to me sing again.” The half of the room that was listening laughed politely. Stan wanted to find Bev, but was too busy watching a train about to crash.

A very familiar beat started, and Stan squinted with confusion up on to the stage.

✯STAN - 2✯

The crowd rumpled with interest. Richie already had begun to dance moronically. This was a disaster waiting to happen.

_I see you drivin’ round town with the girl I love,_

_and I’m like… fuck you._

Richie lip-synced passionately, with an open middle finger. People hollered.

Stan sort of wanted a sinkhole to open, and rip him into the ground, but that didn’t happen. Instead, the room itself descended into madness. People stood from booths and tables, beginning to jive around him. 

Say what you like, but Rich knew how to hype a room. By the end of the first chorus, people were scream-singing along. Including someone who had taken control of the mic, a heavy dude Stan had never seen before in his life, and was actually singing into it, as Richie had neglected.

_I’m like FUCK YOU._

_AND FUCK HER TOO._

Someone was on a table, swinging a feather boa. Beer bottles were broken in the corner. A girl was dancing on her boyfriends shoulders. Hell opened up and demons danced out of his coworkers.

It was still very much Richie’s show, as he pulled up various audience participants to dance around with him on the stage. Stan, try as he might, could not see who on earth he had directed the song at. But, there was really only one logical answer to that question.

Stan watched with horror as people jumped and span around him,  swaying over-enthusiastically to the beat.

_I pity the fool who falls in love you._

Stan suddenly remembered all of the ample opportunities he had before to leave, and thought if time travel were ever invented, he would travel back to those moments just to kick his past self. Even if he couldn’t help the amused smile from creeping on to his face. Because people, especially Richie, making an ass of themselves, was always funny.

_WHY._

_WHY._

_WHY._

_BABY._

Stan blinked in surprise. Richie had officially directed his lavacious attention somewhere, and it was to the second floor. Standing there, looking out over the room through the clear glass window, was Eddie Kaspbrak.

_I LOVE YOU._

Richie pointed up.

_I STILL LOVE YOU._

The room burst into a chaotic cheer. Eddie was smiling as if he had no fucking clue what was going on down there. It was possible he didn’t. Stan wanted to slam his face into the nearest wall. Or, find Patty, get a date, and then wreck his not-much-to-write-home-about face to begin with.

Just as the song came to a close, Stan managed to push his way through to the back of the room. Just as he made it to the door to the street, where he imagined Bev was, he saw him. Noah was standing on the floor, clapping, laughing his ass off.

 *✯~*✯*~✯* 

Stan shook his head, laughed himself, and slid outside. He shut the door behind him, just in time to hear Richie scream “WAIT, WHERE ARE YOU GOING, I WANT A HUG-” and Stan, for once, felt reassured he was not yelling at him.

Bev was standing outside, alongside some much-older Faire veterans, sharing a cigarette.

“Hey,” he grinned at her. “You’ll never guess what you just missed.”

“Oh, I have guesses.” She replied, mouth flickering into a snicker in the lowlight. She blinked up at him, and shook her head, like was neglecting to even begin that talk. “I talked for a while with your girl, tonight.” Just then, the alcohol showed on Bev. She’d never approach a transition like that without it. Alcohol Bev was a lot less tactful.

“I have this for you,” he remembered, and held out her bottle. One of the old Faire guys, fat with a thick beard, saw it and burst out laughing.

“Kids these days,” he chortled, jabbing the woman next to him with his elbow, “no subtlety.” She was wearing a lot of eyeliner and had one of those faces that Stan could tell that thirty years ago she was always the prettiest one in the room.

“Shut up, Jerry. You brought marijuana with you on stage years ago.”

“But that was a bit.”

“No it wasn’t.”

Bev laughed, but uncapped her bottle and threw some back. She must have seen Stan eyeing it, because she offered it up. He, actually, took another swig. This time, the vodka in the tepid summer air burned at his throat. He hacked a little, grimaced, and handed the bottle back to her.

“She’s not my girl.” He announced to break up the silence, in a less than smooth way. She laughed.

“Fuck, Stan, I know that. That’s what we’re trying to change, right?”

“Right.” He affirmed. Bev was wearing a spangly green top he couldn’t recall her wearing before. It suited her, shone on her skin and her freckles popped.

“What’d she say?”

“Oh.” Bev capped her bottle. “That’s classified.” She giggled, cheeks tinted pink, skin looking dewey and fresh.

“Classified?” Stan’s eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, girl code.” She crossed her fingers in front of him. Then laughed at his less-than-happy facial expression.

“I’m with you, kid. That’s some bullshit.” The guy raised his bottle at him.

“That’s solidarity,” his companion corrected him again. He laughed, and wrapped an arm over her shoulder.

Stan grabbed Bev’s bottle back and took another long gulp.

Stan didn’t think, when he drove over there, that he’d play solitaire in the alley outside while drinking and listening to probably made-up stories of the past, but it was what reality brought him. Stan highly doubted that you could fully coat a cat’s foot in peanut butter without that cat clawing the shit out of you, but he had never tried, and listening to the older couples talk was fun.

He figured hanging out by the exit, to try and catch Pat before she left, was a good a plan as any other he might come up with. Of course, his plan didn’t work out exactly as he had planned it to. He and Bev were sitting on their knees, pointing out strategy to their new friends, and that trying to distract the other side with fire tricks was not, in fact, a strategy, when Patty stepped out.

“Hey girl!” Bev called over his shoulder. He whipped around to see her standing there, little unicorn horns on her shoes, her hair clipped out of her face. “How is it in there?”

“Insane!” She answered brightly, fiddling with her belt. “Hot.” She added, as if she had just realized it was, and fanned herself inefficiently.

“Patty.”

“Curly.”

“Curly?” Bev asked, popping some peanuts stolen from the bar into her mouth. “Love that.”

“Stop,” he warned her. She giggled at him, and threw some sparse peanut shells at him.

“Can we talk?” Stan asked, pushing to his feet, and realizing only then how unsturdy the ground was beneath him.

“Can dolphins learn to love?”

“....yes?” He guessed.

“Then sure!” And then, for lack of a better place to go, he took her on a very romantic stroll into an alleyway filled with trash by a trashy bar. Because life just is what it hands you, sometimes.

“I don’t know about dolphins,” Patty rambled. “They seem like they have the capacity...deep down… but I heard they’re kind of shifty jerks with a mob mentality and maybe-”

“Patty.” Stan interrupted her, stopping his gait now that they were well enough into the garbage corner.

“Yeah?” She asked, wobbling on her heels, probably from aching feet.

“I like you.” He told her bluntly. His tone was crisp. “I like you quite a lot.” He added, running out of things to say. “And I think we’d be really good together.” In a place that wasn’t this dumpster land. Or there, too. Anywhere, really.

“I- uhm.” She blinked with surprise. Stan thought this might have come easier if he had offered her some of the water bottle too. Again, kicking past Stan all over, after the invention of time travel, of course. “Same.” She said finally, and Stan could finally, finally breathe. “I really like you too.”

That seemed good enough to leave there, but she continued: “But… don’t you think it’s silly?”

No, frankly. Nothing had ever seemed less silly to him. And many things appeared silly to Stan Uris. “How so?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. Her pink lipstick was smudged. Stan’s teenage boy brain reeled ahead of him, thinking of various possible solutions for that. “It’s complicated. Like: for. Well, we’d only have a few weeks of the summer left before splitting ways for college.” ...and? “And then we’d be? Long distance? I’m going out of state, I don’t know about you.” ….and? “And my best friend always said not to start college with a boyfriend especially one who’s not even there. It just seems… you like when… and people you hate who are…”

“Foolish?” Stan filled in the blank with an obvious guess. It really did not smell good in there.

“Yeah.” Patty deflated. Stan hated the sight of it.

“Well, for what it’s worth: I don’t think so.” He told her bluntly.

“No?”

“No.”

“What do you think, then?” She prompted, seeming genuinely interested in his thoughts. He thought she might be expecting something more profound than what came out.

“I think that I really, really like you and I want to date you.” But it really was that simple.

“I like you too, Stanley.”

“Great. So then let’s date.”

“I just think it’s more complicated than that.”

“I don’t think so.” He paused, not trying to get pushy after he...walked a girl into mess road. “But in the end, you know what’s best for you. It’s okay.” He told her earnestly, even though the very thought of going another day without kissing her at least one time felt like it was strangling him. “It’s really okay.”

She half-smiled at him, seeming both fond and sad and thoughtful and goddamn, did Stan want to kiss her. “We’ll take it one day at a time?” She offered.

“Hell,” Stan shrugged, “I’ll take it ten minutes at a time if that’s what I can get.”

“Well,” she laughed, “I was gonna leave…” Stan tried to let his disappointment not write itself all over his face, “but I think I have ten minutes.”  
“Then ten minutes,” he offered his arm to her, “it will be.” 

There were approximately four minutes left of the last set of promised ten minutes (there had been three, at that point, which left Stan feeling only mildly smug) when the bar started playing Always by Bon Jovi.

✯STAN - 3✯

Someone was singing bad karaoke to it. Patty burst out laughing. Bev somehow knew the words. Stan was mystified. But beyond that momentary lapse of the universe where Stan laughed with the group outside and Stan felt somewhat immortal: Always was an important anecdote. Stan would never forget it. The smoke scent lingering on the edges of the air, the burn of vodka in the back of his throat, always humming a bit in his eardrums.

_I'll be there, till the stars don't shine_

_'Til the heavens burst and the words don't rhyme_

Halfway through the musical rift, it stopped abruptly. Bev pouted. Patty led an active boo amongst the gang. They were laughing about it, until commotion and noise increased inside.

 *✯~*✯*~✯* 

“The hell is going on in there-” Deb began to ask, when the door pushed open and people spilled out. The toppled over each other, pushing their way out of the building. For a moment, it looked like a fire started in there. Noise spilled out with them, though the voices of the front runners sailed through the chaos to them.

“Jesus, Denbrough is gonna get his ass kicked-”

“Tozier didn’t help-”

Bev dropped her cigarette on the ground. She didn’t hesitate, she didn’t look back. She pushed through the people, and ran inside.

Stan stepped to follow her, and then stopped. He looked back to Patty. She laughed at him, pushing her hair behind her ear. “Go, Stanley!” She encouraged, even pushing his shoulder a bit.

He caught her wrist and nodded. “But, our three minutes-”

She rolled her eyes, and laughed loudly. The sharp ring cut through the chaotic noise and sprang straight through his ear drums, into his heart. She tugged her wrist back, pulling Stan towards her. And then, before he even knew what was happening, her other hand tugged on his hair, and she sprung up, bringing their mouths to the same level, for a solid, smacking kiss.

The guys behind them hollered, and Stan’s heart beat loudly enough he swore she could hear it through all the commotion.

“Then I’ll give you another ten.” She shoved him. “GO!”

And Stan did. Stan, heart pounding and adrenaline pumping, ran back inside.

* * *

 Ben’s stomach hadn’t stopped turning since Bev stormed out of the office yesterday, and he was too much of a coward to do absolutely anything about it. It replayed in his head over and over. It’s a minor sting, something like that. Less than that of a bee’s. But it felt like he got stung every time he heard himself making mistake after mistake. In the same spot, getting deeper and … more painful.

More painful every time.

Even worse, though, was imagining the alternative.

The scenario when he stood up and told her that he loves her. That he thinks of her so often he can hardly stand it but at the same time, couldn’t imagine life without it. That even if he died thinking of her every day, he wouldn’t change a goddamned thing.

And she would laugh in his face.

Or worse, get that sympathetic look Bev gets in her eye every so often, say in her soft, lilting voice “oh… Ben…” Let him down easy as a girl as beautiful as she is had to be good at that by now.

Fucking awful. Painful.

When he heard it again, ringing in the back of his head, accompanied by a soft “I’m sorry, but-” he clicked on on his sound system. He would truly listen to absolutely anything else in that moment.

✯BEN - 1✯

_Well I have been searching all of my days_

_Many a road, you know_

_I’ve been walking on_

_All of my days_

_And I’ve been trying to find_

_What’s been in my mind_

_As the days keep turning into night_

He dreaded going in there, not knowing who he was going to talk to. If he was even gonna talk to anyone. But he moreso couldn’t stand the thought of another night alone with his thoughts, so he drove onward. He tried to convince himself that he’d be able to trick himself into thinking someone might enjoy his company long enough to start a conversation. He didn’t know if he’d actually be able to.

He wondered when it would stop. If it ever would. He wondered if there’d ever be a day when he could do something so simple as text one of his friends and ask them to come over without feeling like an absolute burden on their life.

_Well many a night I found myself with no friends standing near_

_All of my days_

_I cried aloud_

_I shook my hands_

_What am I doing here_

He shut the song off before it reached it’s last chorus. He’d take wiping out his cars later so he could just roll down all of his windows and listen to rushing wind passing by and rain that had finally lightened up.

 *✯~*✯*~✯* 

When he finally made it inside, he looked out at the crowd of people and felt sick. He knew, logically, how to do these things. Say hello, be polite, listen more than talk, make a joke but not too often. But his body would never just take him over to one of the circles of people to start talking.

He could walk out and go home.

No one would notice.

And yet, he yearned, absolutely ached, for someone to, and so he pressed his back to the wall, and made his way into the room with the actual bar. He bit his fingernail. He realized, what with the shoulders, and the dust of five o’clock shadow on his jaw, and the fact he managed to wear a shirt that wasn’t a tee, that he could probably get by without getting carded. But he didn’t want to get in trouble.

He slid into a blissfully empty chair at a wonderfully abandoned table, with no other chairs around it.

And he knew he had made himself just about as unapproachable as it came, but he wished for someone to stop by and say hello, at least so he could stop being a self-pitying asshole.

Two things continued to amaze Ben Hanscom: how fast time flew while playing Tetris, and that whenever the universe handed him exactly what he asked for, he was surprised by it.

“Hey,” a pretty brunette girl with hair falling down her shoulders, barely sticking to them in the heat, was smiling at him. “Ben, right?”

“...Yeah.” He replied awkwardly.

“Why are you sitting over here?” She asked amicably. She flicked her hair over her shoulders, and gestured to a table a few feet away. “My friends and I are gonna play a game, you should join us.” She smiled at him.

“I, uhm.” Okay. People were talking to him. And he hadn’t seen high or low of his actual friends all night. Why was he still upset about this?

“Leave it, Petra,” a guy hollered at them just loudly enough to be heard over the music. “Ben Hanscom will not want to play with us.” He smiled in a way that he seemed to think made his statement non-offensive. He made a drinking gesture with his hands, and laughed like Ben had never heard of alcohol and was actually this week’s guest star on Sesame Street. He was wearing a shirt for a college he definitely wasn’t going to and stubble just awkward enough looking to not look good on his somewhat round face.

Ben, not at all wanting to hang out with that asshole, stood up, and walked over to that asshole.

“Alright,” he shrugged, definitely looking back to Petra and definitely not checking if Bev was anywhere in the vicinity to notice Petra.

_✯BEN - 2✯_

_Whatcha’ know ‘bout me._

_Whatcha’ watcha’ know ‘bout me._

Ben tipped back three shots of tequila in a row. He didn’t even know how much that cost. He didn’t even care, because Ryan, as he learned his name was, with his dumb backwards hat, was staring him down as he took them.

So, Ben turned to Petra and asked “another?”

_They say my lip gloss is lip gloss is poppin'_

_My lip gloss is cool_

_All the boys keep jockin'_

_They chase me after school_

“Yeah, then we got kicked out.” Ryan told smugly. Some laughed, some raised their mugs in solidarity. Ben looked pensieve.  
“Yeah, I mean.” Ben frowned in consideration, cupping his glass closer to him. “I’ve broken into a couplea’ places with my friends. Never been so careless as to get kicked out, though. Kind of takes an idiot, nowadays.” 

Ryan’s beer can crackled.

_They say my lip gloss is lip gloss is poppin'_

_My lip gloss is cool_

_All the boys keep jockin'_

_They chase me after school_

“And yeah,” Ben shrugged. “I dunno. We’re...always gonna have buildings, right?”  
“Definitely,” Petra sighed. Her eyes were wide and she stared at Ben bizarrely, chin in her palm.

“ _Meeeh- we’re always going to have buildings because I’m Ben, King of Buildings,”_ Ryan mocked under his breath, into his cup of frothing beer.

“Hey… come on now…” Ben drawled sadly. “Call me Prince. King is my Dad.”

_yep 'cause I'm worth it_

_Love tha way I puts it on so perfect_

Ben didn’t understand how people could stand to be this normal. Wasn’t it boring? To only be thinking of what movies were playing next week or random celebrity gossip. He hated missing his friends when he was mad at them because it only made him more mad and he was drinking beer and his insides were turning into alcohol feelings soup and it seemed bad all around.

“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” Ben told him after a long moment of just the rowdy bar noise behind them. “I think you’re okay like you are.”

“...you’re alright, Hanscom.” Ryan said.

“I try.”

_What you know 'bout me_

_What you know 'bout me_

 *✯~*✯*~✯* 

Ben had no idea how long he’d been hanging out with this table, but it felt like a few hours. It had eventually just dwindled down to him, Ryan, and Petra. They lost Petra for a bit, but she came back, and they got more glasses, which was probably good. Ben couldn’t tell. Or remember where Wisconsin was. Or his phone number.

“Jesus Christ,” Ryan said lowly to him, their shoulders pressed together. “Those guys are fucking _diiiicks_.” He drawled, gesturing to some guys in the corner.

“Yeah?” Ben asked, taking a rushed gulp to finish his glass, hoping it would help his stomach stop turning. “What they’d do?”

“They’re friends with O’Connor, side note: also a massive dick face.”

“Noted.”

“He’s just pissed no one likes him anymore because he’s a huge fucking perv. He comes in and sets up the mics and that’s it.” Petra added in from the side.  
“Gross.” Ben hiccuped.

“Yep.”

“He and his friends come here every year and act like they’re too good for the damn thing,” an older patron threw in from their spot a table away. “Make fun of it. Don’t know why they fucking bother.”

“As long as he doesn’t make any creepy comments, I’m good.” Petra added on.

“Creepy comments?” Ben asked, turning to her with a crumpled face. “Like, about what?”  
“He said some really weird shit about the Princess last year. Considering, she was like, what? 17?” Ryan downed his drink.

“...he did what?” Ben asked.

“Almost got him sacked.

“Almost like I don’t have ears, huh, guys?” He gestured to his four adult men friends who had nothing better to do on a Wednesday night than drink and make fun of strangers for doing nothing wrong. “Word of advice, kids: talk shit, get hit.” He gestured at them in what he probably thought was a menacing way for a weedy guy in his thirties.

“Hey, who the fuck-” Ben stood up, stumbling off his bar stool. Whoa. He never noticed the earth spinning under his feet. He wondered if alcohol made you more intuned with the planet.

“No, bud:” he interrupted, “You don’t have to ask. II don’t want to be apart of your dungeons and dragons group.” The weirdo laughed, throwing his head back and revealing his poorly concealed bald spot. His eyes narrowed on Ben. “Hey, I know you. You’re running around with that Marsh girl all the time.”  
“The fa-fact that that is that you know her name, is that’s is fucking weird, bro.” Ben recovered smoothely.

“Is it?” He asked him patronizingly. They hadn’t garnered any attention outside of their tables, yet. Ben wondered how. They were talking so loud. “As weird as following her around hoping one day she’ll sleep with you, like everyone else?”

Ben did the only rational thing he could think to do. He grabbed his bottle, and chucked it at the guy’s feet. He hopped up, swearing, “what the FUCK, kid?!”  
Ben stumbled back, asking himself a similar question in his brain. And there, not to answer it but seemingly just to appear: was Bill.

“Whoa, whoa: what the fuck is going on here?” Bill demanded, looking in between the two of them. Ben’s body decided it would like, very much, to be vomiting.

“You,” Ben didn’t reply to Bill, keeping his eyes on the dude in front of him, “are a FUCK.”

Ben seemed to not remember that when you’re drunk, not everyone is as drunk as you are. The guy took a few steps up to him swiftly, and punched him right in the stomach. Ben gagged, doubled over, holding his stomach.

“Fuck, bro, what the hell?!” Ryan yelled, jumping away from the action.

Of course, he was no Bill Denbrough, as previously mentioned, who grabbed the front of the guy’s shirt, and for a moment, no longer looked like a weedy teenager, as he had several inches on the guy.

“Another one of Marsh’s lackys? Touching.”

“Fuck, ignore it, Bill.” Ben told the floorboards. “It’s not worth it.” They were spinning. Or Ben was spinning. He really thought it was the floorboards, though. When he looked back up, Bill had his hands behind his back, held by one guy probably fifteen years his senior, and was getting punched in the face. The room was still spinning. “Motherfuck.”

 ✯BEN - 3✯ 

Then, music started playing over the bar. Ben couldn’t quite put his finger on the source, it sounded like he was at a basketball game.

Then, seemingly, right as the music bumped to the lyric, Richie was there. He looked at Ben, raised his eyebrows, and said, along with the music “y’all ready for this?” And punched the guy that guy in the face.

And then got hit over the side of the head.

And then Ben was in it, too, and he was getting hit and somehow also hitting and somehow not puking which was absolutely miraculous. When someone kicked him he genuinely felt surprised because he forgot, for a moment, he had legs.

But then, he was falling, and he was on the floor, and he was probably about to get kicked in the stomach which would have him puking but instead when he opened his eyes in the dark light there was a hand waiting for him, and it was Mike Hanlon’s. “Unbelievable. Un-fucking believable.”  
And Ben might have disagreed until he saw Eddie literally sprint across the bar floor and jump on the back of the guy who had Rich in a chokehold and tear him off. And then kick him in the face.

He might have seen Stan hit someone with a stool and - when did Stan get there? And Bev? Just elbowed someone in the face? Ben was so confused he wasn’t paying attention and someone kicked him in the back of the legs and he fell, again. FUCK. Just in time to witness Bill land a hit across someone’s face and oh my god they were in a barfight, and it was Ben’s fault.

Ben briefly entertained the idea that he might have died and this was, in fact, hell.

 *✯~*✯*~✯* 

* * *

 Eddie was short. He thought he had somewhat mentally adjusted to that. Yet, in that moment, he felt like a small frog trying to navigate big blades of grass. The forest of people was tall and deeply intimidating, previously unnavigated grounds. He was newly eighteen, but he could recall several days before that Milestone where he felt like an adult. Today he could not feel like less of one. Today he was a tiny frog boy just looking for a lily pad to call his own.

He figured the snack bar was enough of one.

It was bizarre, being at a party where the drinks were flowing and people were certainly floating down that river- but the office fluorescent lights were on and bright. He could see the lines on faces, the creases in the suits, in stunning clarity. As easy to see as it was that he didn’t belong up there.

He stared out at the dance floor forlornly. He couldn’t pick out a single familiar face. Not because they weren’t there, but because there were too many. The crowd seemed to form into one massive, thumping to the beat of a cover of a Britney Spears song, he was sure, by the passionate no-longer-a-teenage-girl-but-wants-people-to-think-she’s-one standing on the stage. Drunk, or getting there, folks, were dancing like mad. They were mostly white, so it was mostly bad. But for all it’s lack of rhythm, it was loose-limbed and joyful. Dancing like nobody’s watching, because nobody was. Eddie had never, not once in his life, reached a state, whether it be intoxication or unbridled endorphins, quite like that. One where he just didn’t care at all what anybody said or anyone thought. He thought that the veterans of the Faire, people who wore knight costumes well into their 50’s, making less in a takeaway salary than a fast food worker, downing drafts in the corner wearing clubwear that was probably cool in the 80’s, practically had PHD’s in not giving a fuck. They didn’t belong up where he was standing, with the stuffy people in business casual with cuff-links and polished shoes. And they didn’t want to. Eddie wondered just how freeing that was.

An all too platonic hand landed on his shoulder. “Hey.”

He turned in what he hoped was an extra flamboyant turn, because he knew on the other side would be a Noah, who’d inevitably be a foot further away from him than he wanted him to be.

And ring ring ring, we have a winner, Kaspbrak, he heard Richie’s obnoxious announcer voice in the back of his head. Noah looked less pretentious than the rest of them, wearing a green ¾ buttoned sweater and dress pants. He looked… fine. Straight. Straight enough, Eddie supposed.

“It’s not like Dad has a big issue with it,” he had told Eddie in the car outside, “he just doesn’t really think it’s smart of me to put it all out there in front of the investors and managers and I-“ and Eddie supposed that was the world they were living in. Maybe it wasn’t bad to be gay, but it certainly wasn’t smart.

But Eddie was eighteen and he figured nothing he could be doing would be considered particularly smart.

“Hey,” he greeted Noah, leaning into his touch as much as he could. Even as Noah shifted his weight away from him. “Have you schmoozed beyond what was previously known as schmoozing to man?”i

Noah squinted at him, “what?” He asked incredulously, leaning on the table with his cute, squinty smile. He nodded at Eddie’s clear glass, soda still sparkling. “Is that spiked?”

“Would you be mad if I said I wish it was?” Eddie asked, rolling his eyes and setting his glass down on the table. He let his hand linger by Noah’s, wishing he’d just grab it. He wouldn’t.

And he didn’t, he straightened up, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Mad isn’t the word I’d use.” “Adscititious? Stercoraceous? Uncinate?” Eddie asked cheekily, crossing his arms with a smug smile, leaning back against the glass. It was almost strangely tepid in the room, perfectly temperature controlled. His collar itched against his neck. He’d feel ridiculous in the inevitably sweaty crowd downstairs in a baby blue button up.

“What is this?” Noah finally stepped forward, a small growl in his voice as he wrapped an arm around Eddie. “Your SATs?” He asked in his ear. Eddie let his arms drop, Noah spinning him to look out at the crowd. It was the kind of motion that would almost always end with a kiss to his head. His head ached to be kissed. He tried to settle with the arm over his shoulders, but it wasn’t that different to how Richie would greet him on any regular Tuesday. Did everything have to be so goddamned heterosexual? Or… bisexual- Eddie didn’t know, nothing made sense anymore.

“Clearly it’s been a while since you’ve taken SATs, old man.” Eddie whacked his stomach. “None of those words were emotions.”

“Hmm,” Noah traced a small star on his arm. His swipe of fingers would be soothing, but Eddie just wanted to fold into him. “What do they mean?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Eddie laughed. “I don’t even know if those _are_ words.”

Noah laughed. His nose brushed by his head. Eddie felt his hair rustle. Another moment that aggressively lacked a kiss. His hand brushed by him gently as he withdrew his arm. Eddie hated khakis, and soda, and that moment.

“You can go down there you know,” Noah reminded him.

“I think I’ve proved that I know I can go down,” Eddie shot back, smirking at him. He pinched Noah’s itchier than expected sweater between two fingers, biting his lip. He laughed at Noah’s raised eyebrow, the lick of his lips.

And tried not to let his heart ache at Noah’s step backwards.

“No one down there wants to talk to me.” Eddie told him honestly. In between him being completely fucking incapable of opening up to Bev and freaking out at Richie and Bill in front of Stan trying to be normal for four minutes and Mike taking the heat for the whole goddamned ordeal, he thought his friend count was down to 1. That one being Noah. Maybe two. Georgie might talk to him if he tried. Noah was giving him an overly empathetic look, and he realized that they’d signed up for a karaoke party, not a pity party, so he grunted and changed his mind: “no one I care about.”

“What happened?” Noah asked, leaning on the glass. His curls crushed up against the reflection of the uninteresting happenings behind them.

“It doesn’t matter,” Eddie replied honestly. “I’m a selfish asshole who doesn’t know how to think about anyone but himself.” He told him, again self-piteously. Thinking of himself. Goddamnit.

“Well,” Noah clicked his tongue. Eddie raised his eyebrows at him, as if he was almost daring him to agree, “as much as I don’t agree with you,” he placated. Eddie grumbled, but relaxed his shoulders. “Have you tried apologizing?”  
Eddie frowned. “Do you think if I jumped from there it would kill me?” He inquired, looking out over the ledge that had the stairs that led downstairs.

“Eddie,” Noah sighed good-naturedly, hands twitching towards him and then returning to flatten out his pants. “You know they’d forgive you. They love you. Don’t be irrational.”  
Eddie ran a palm over his face, “as serious as my jumping plan was,” he told Noah with a flat, stabbing look. Noah grinned. “You know me. You can’t take a fish out of water and tell it to fish.”

“.....what?”

Eddie cringed. He wasn’t sure what bus that statement was getting on, and he definitely didn’t know where it got off. “I don’t know. I’m irrational by nature, that’s what I’m saying.” He told Noah matter-of-factly. Noah nodded like he knew that. Because at that point, he probably did. “Do you want to get a drink?”

“I-” Noah opened his mouth like he was ready to argue, but his chest buckled with a laugh, and he just grinned, “would love to.”

Several thankful drinks later, and Noah decided to traverse down to the actual bar to get the good stuff before they retreated from the bar for the night. Eddie hated beer. It tasted like stale sparkling water with a dash of vinegar. Fucking gross. Was he so bad for wanting alcohol to taste good? Whatever color it may come.

However, he had found easy amusement in the time it took his boyfriend to cross down to the bar below. Richie had taken the stage below.

“What on earth,” he watched Richie prance around on the stage. He was wearing his dumb yellow hat backwards. “Are you doing?” Eddie felt the fond smile creep on to his face, as unwanted as a weeaboo in Japan. Richie grabbed the hand of an elderly woman, one Eddie knew he knew the name of but was failing him in the moment, and dragged her lavaciously onto the stage. He swayed his hips. Her head fell back in laughter. He looked like he was not singing on key, or well, but with passion. The crowd below sure seemed into it, people abandoning their tables to literally jump around wildly. He wondered what song he could have chosen that would get people worked up like that. After a few long moments of passionate sing-screaming, as if they called out to him, Richie seemed to notice Eddie’s eyes on him. He grinned so hard that it was probably impossible to sing, singing all the way up to the top even though he likely knew there was no possible way Eddie could hear him. He flung a hand at Eddie, throwing his head back, continuing to sing. He looked quite strained. And sweaty. It looked like people were pumped about it though, and Eddie finally heard a faint burst of cheering come through the glass. It must have really been chaotic, if it had gotten that loud. Eddie laughed.

He looked around for his actual boyfriend on the floor, who had gotten, quite literally, danced into a corner, clutching two cups like his life depended on them. And they might have. Alcohol might be the only thing to get a gay man through a sixty something year old woman in a corset grinding on you like your crotch was the vaccination for potential Alzheimer’s.

Oddly enough, when the song came to an end pretty quickly after, Noah set his drinks down on the table, just to beam at Richie and clap. Richie, indulging in theatrics as he so loved to do, blew a kiss at him, and took a sweeping bow. Eddie felt like he really, really just missed something. But he had no idea what. And from the strange, incredulous look on Noah’s face as he climbed the steps back up to the loft, he had this weird feeling he didn’t want to know.

That really, it’d be better for everyone if he died in uncertainty. But he wanted to know, still. And he didn’t. Eddie didn’t know.

The night droned on in a way that simultaneously made Eddie feel like he was handing over chips representing minutes of his lifespan on Earth to some sort of evil poker dealer, and in a way that made him feel like he blinked and an hour had gone by.

“I think,” Noah muttered into his ear, “we have done our due diligence.”

“Can we go to the diner?” Eddie replied, wanting to eat rubbery eggs and soggy hash browns in some semblance of peace. He gave another forlorn glance to the floor. It was too late now to join them all. He didn’t want to embarrass Noah by making a fool of himself with the rest of the fools down there.

He still couldn’t see the rest of his friends in the muddle. Hell, he didn’t even knew if they came. But he could see Rich, flashlight in the dark, with his dumb fucking yellow cap on. He was sitting on the edge of the stage, phone in his hand, right by the speakers and the makeshift DJ booth, laughing with a few of the older guys. His face was pink, he must have been a few drinks in. Eddie remembered that face the night they decided to get sushi at a grocery store while drunk at two am, and Bev forgot how to read. Eddie, despite himself, smiled fondly.

“Noah, hi-” Eddie heard a voice from behind him. He jumped at the surprise, but quickly tried to compose himself. It was Noah’s dad, the intimidating Mr. Bruckner. He had his hands in his pockets and easy smile that came with a few glasses of wine. “Eddie,” he seemed to just notice his presence. Eddie knew he wasn’t the tallest, but, come on. ”Hello, how are you?” He asked him noncommittally, reaching out to shake his hand. Eddie complied politely, even successfully hid a grimace at his sweaty palm.

“I’m doing okay, how are you?”

“Fine,” he replied, turning back to Noah, “did you speak to Abruckle about the-” And that was where Eddie zoned out. That was about the extent of his relationship thus far with Noah’s dad. He couldn’t complain that much. It was far superior to the relationship Noah had with his own mother.

“Eddie and I,” Eddie blinked, as he was being mentioned and he hadn’t even realized how much time had gone by, “are going to grab a bite to eat. Do you want to come?”

“No, thank you, early morning tomorrow.” He half-faked a yawn. Eddie wanted to roll his eyes at his rolled up sleeves and obviously dyed dark hair. “However,” he flicked a finger at Eddie as if he had given him the inspiration for a particularly clever idea. “That is a good excuse to leave, so I’ll walk out with you.”

Eddie had his jacket handed to him so quickly he didn’t think he had time to blink in between. In fact, Eddie didn’t think he had any blinking time in the next ten minutes. Because when he was half-way down the steps, there was yelling happening and a bopping tune playing and he looked down at the floor and some fuck had Richie Tozier in a chokehold.

Eddie had heard it said, that you can’t choose who you are, but you can choose the company you keep.

He’d argue that was bullshit.

He supposed he’d made the choice, to apologize to Noah, in front of his dad, and shove his coat into his arms.

But he genuinely thought there was something inside of him that made him bolt down those stairs, jump off that guy’s back to rip him off of Richie’s shoulders, throw him to the ground, and kick him in the face. Something that couldn’t be helped.

He’d be a part of them, all seven of them, no matter what they faced. Getting struck in the back of his knees until he tumbled to the ground, and then kicked when he was down there, was just part of it.

Because Mike Hanlon was there to shove the guy away, and offer him a hand off his back. And anyone else would be there too. And they’d fight till the bitter end, even though Eddie had no fucking clue what they were fighting for… or against, or at all. They fought until some dude raised a hand to Bev’s head, to only realize he was about to strike a girl, and he stumbled away in horror, yelling a loud “FUCK!” that ceased the fighting. It was oddly quiet, but loud, ruckus still continuing though the fight stilled. The music was long gone, but Eddie had barely even heard what it was. Eddie fell back from whoever was punching him, and Rich toppled to the ground at his side. They stared around at each other, at the broken barstools and bleeding knuckles and the yelling of the furious bartender, several of the managers of the faire headed their way.

Bill shoved him towards the door, “R-RUN!”

They pushed their way to the door, ignoring the calls after them. Eddie got there first, and counted as his friends ran through it. He wouldn’t leave one of them behind. Each ran through… Ben last, obviously winded, obviously actually hurt. Eddie grimaced, and all but shoved him through, and then slammed the door behind them.

Of course, that wasn’t enough.

They ran like hell down the street.

  
And they ran for four blocks, and rounded a corner, and then another two. Eddie became painfully aware of how little exercise they had put in over the course of their friendship. His ankles cracked against the hard, unforgiving pavement, and his body shook as it searched for the breathe that he knew he had. He tried hard not to think of his inhaler.   
  
“fucking hell, Ben-” Mike slowed, breath sounding like it was painfully raked out of him, “can you breathe?” They all stopped, gathering around their friend with concern. Ben had his hands pressed to his knees. Eddie’s shoulder ached,but the rest of him seemed relatively unscathed. Other than the sweat. He highly doubted he smelled at all pleasant. And the breathing, his lungs were still screaming.

 

“Fuck, Ben,” Bill told him, lowering himself down to a knee. Eddie was reminded then of how bad his own were aching from the smack earlier, “are you alright?”  
  
“I’m fine,” he wheezed, “I’m just gonna-” he all but fell back into the grass. Bill tumbled alongside him.   
  
“Thank fuck,” Richie praised, collapsing on Ben’s other side. Stan rolled his eyes, but sat down, too. And then Bev fell into his shoulder, and finally Mike laid half-on to Richie.   
  
Eddie looked down at the pile of his friends, and realized, all in one moment, how much he had missed them. How much he loved them, and their dumb poor exercise habits and low stamina and easy tempers and he sighed and he said “guys…”   


and then seemingly, all at once, they said “I’m sorry.”  
  
And then, all at once, they laughed.   
  
And that was seemingly that.   
  
There were other things that could be said, but sitting there, in the grass of someone or other’s lawn, under what might have been a starry sky if it hadn’t been so damn cloudy, with nothing but the wind to soundtrack them: nothing seemed necessary.   
  
And nothing was.   
  
Bill grabbed Eddie by the shirt, and tugged him down to the ground, too. “No more fighting.” Bill declared. “Hell or high water-”   


“What does that mean-” Richie started

“We stick together.” Bill wrapped his arm over Eddie’s shoulder. “We’re better off that way.”

And although they had just gotten in a fight together, maybe lost their jobs together, maybe got lost together, and they had no otherwise contextual evidence to support Bill’s claim: no one argued with it.

“Fuck,” Stan complained hoarsely, “my shoulder’s gonna kill me tomorrow.”

“Also… does anyone know who’s yard we’re in?” Mike asked.

“Nope.” The group answered in unison.

“We should get the fuck out of here,” Ben told them.

“We should.” Bill agreed.

No one budged for another ten minutes.

“Where are we going?” Bill asked finally, moving to get up. And the group shifted as one, pulling everyone to their feet, leaning on someone’s shoulders or grabbing someone’s hands, all as one unit.

“We?” Ben asked.

“We can’t split up tonight,” Richie announced, draping him over the much less winded Ben’s shoulders. “It’s illegal, Benny-boy,” he smacked a kiss on his cheek. Eddie laughed, and grabbed Bev’s hand. Bev, enthralled, tugged Eddie into her side.

“Bill’s, of course.” Stan replied logically. “It’s where we go.” And it was true, it was.

“So usual arrangements?” Ben seemed to guess their driving situation. “I’ll meet you guys there?”

“Oh, I can’t drive.” Stan told them, looking seriously back at them as they began to walk back in the direction of the bar. “I’m drunk.”

“Really?” Eddie asked, squinting at him. He could feel the alcohol sloshing around in his own system, but he highly doubted Stan was drunk at all. He was walking normally, talking normally. Nothing seemed amiss.

“Oh, yeah. I’m trashed.” He told them. Eddie laughed loudly.

“I can’t drive either y’all.” Ben announced, grabbing Mike's hand and plopping his keys into them.

“Where the fuck did you even go?” Bill asked him.

“I was with these guys and I don't know...” Ben replied. “Because I was mad and wanted to prove... something..even though I don’t know why. I’m sorry by the-”

“Benny,” Richie wrapped an arm around Ben. “We’re already past that part of the movie. Don’t make me recast you.”

“What-”

“Looks like,” Eddie stepped forward, and looped his arm through Ben’s on the side that wasn’t heavily occupied by Richie Tozier, “we’re counting on you, Mike.” They were all sweaty, Eddie realized. He didn’t care, either.

Bill snorted. “What else is new.”

"I am really sorry, guys." Ben said loudly, again. Probably because they were all bruised. “I-” Ben paused. Eddie knew he was going to say that he loved them, but he, for whatever reason, didn’t. “Okay.”

And even though he hadn’t said it to them, Eddie yawned and leaned on Ben’s shoulder, “I love you, Ben.”

“Ditto,” Stan added from the side, walking alone, with his hands in his pockets, but still with them.

A moment passed, of just their feet crunching on the ground and the wind whistling by, before Ben said softly, yet passionately,  “...thanks.”

And then they, or he, Rich, Bev, and Stan, were sitting in the truck bed, while Ben, Bill and Mike sat up front. Because the truck was the only vehicle to haul all of their drunk asses at once. Eddie only then stopped to wonder how badly he had confused his boyfriend. He was going to text him, but Ben plugged in his phone, and a song pattered out of the speakers. It piqued Eddie’s interest, and he signalled to Mike to turn it up.

✯EDDIE -1✯

_Now I see clearly_

_It’s you I’m looking for_

_All of my days_

_So I’ll smile_

_I know I’ll feel this loneliness no more_

_All of my days_

The road swerved on, and Eddie only felt his stomach turn a few times. Although it was dark, and he’d have a nasty bruise to explain tomorrow and he was exhausted and the world was solemn, he couldn’t remember the last time he felt so thoroughly whole. He sprawled his legs out over the back, Bev’s hand twisted with his own on his stomach. He picked at her finger nails. Richie’s hands ruffled in his hair, twisting pieces together and apart again. He thought if he could pick any moment to wrap up and hand to his younger self, and say: _hey, look. You don’t need that plastic tube. You need to learn how to breathe._ It would be that one.

_Yes, even breathing feels all right_

 *✯~*✯*~✯* 

And then next song that came on, which was so funny, so right, so Ben, was a throwback from childhood itself. As if his past self had thrown a rock at him and said: _heard. Dumbass_.

✯EDDIE -2✯

_I got a lot of things I have to do_

He sang the last piece of the verse, dramatically tossing his hair and directing his gaze towards Bev. She laughed, sitting up to prepare herself for the dramatic singing ahead of them.

_All these distractions_

_Our futures coming soon_

She sang too, grabbing his hand and pulled him up. Richie groaned, and Eddie elbowed him. Pretentious music fuck fun suck.

_We're being pulled a hundred different directions_

He pushed his hand out towards Stan. He patted it. Eddie laughed.

_But whatever happens I know I've got you._

_You’re on my mind, you’re in my heart._

_It doesn’t matter where we are._

_We’ll be alright, even if we’re miles apart._

Stan tapped on the window, their signal to turn the music up. Mike looked back and laughed at them.

The music did turn up, and Bill Denbrough burst through the sunroof like an absolute maniac. Bev shrieked in laughter, and tumbled to her feet so she could hold his hand. He twirled her. They did their best dancing. As good as it got… in the back of a moving truck.

Eddie joined them for the second verse, each of them holding one of Bill’s hands. Stan doing a very convincing airdrum from the relative safety of his seat.

_A friend like you always makes it easy._

_I know that you get me every time._

_Through every up, through every down…_

And Eddie noticed the car had slowed even more, as they drove through the country backroads, as one did when they had a truck full of drunk teenagers. It slowed to a stop, and as the chorus came rousing back to the song, the music was cranked up once again, and Mike and Ben poured out of the doors on the side.

_All that I wanna do is be with you._

Ben lifted Bev down from the truck. Bill jumped out of the roof, and dancing with Eddie on top of the truck. Eddie didn’t even see how it happened, but Mike and Stan were laughing their asses off, waltzing by the side of the bed. Eddie’s throat hurt bad, from the alcohol, from the running, and then was getting ripped raw by the laughter that wouldn’t quit, but he continued to dance, even jumping down from the bed to join Bev and Ben in their jumping whatever. He turned back, and offered a hand to Richie. Richie just raised his eyebrows. Eddie laughed at him, spinning around in a wild circle, like someone who just truly, really, didn’t care. Like the world could swallow him alive tomorrow and that’d be okay because he had that moment.

_And we will always be together._

And his attempt at a two-step with Stan came to a close, laughing and out of breath as the song winded down, Gabriella Montez riffing on every single hoe… and he had Mike’s hands in his and he laughed, once again, and didn’t care who in the fucking world saw them.

And as the song came to a close, Richie had his legs over the edge of bed that had been let down. His hat was on backwards, ruffled hair in his eyes. He smirked at Eddie. He couldn't help his beam in response. He tugged Eddie by the back of his shirt in between them, wrapping his arms over his shoulders. He nestled his face in his hair.

_All that I wanna do… just wanna be with you._

And he kissed the top of Eddie’s head.

 *✯~*✯*~✯* 

As they pulled into the Denbrough driveway, Eddie had never quite so profoundly realized exactly how much of an adult he wasn’t. And didn't particularly have the desire to be. He was so, so happy to get drunk with his friends and sing some dumb nostalgia and argue about nothing for no reason. He snuggled up to Stan the rest of the ride home, ready to doze on his chest at any given moment. His shirt was soft, along with his arms. 

“I just think it’s worth looking into…” Bev shrugged nonchalantly.

“Using a mirror to point a lazer in another direction?” Stan asked, hand resting, not patting nor rubbing, just sitting, atop Eddie’s head. “No, Bev, that’s not worth looking into.”

Richie frowned, “but on Totally Spies they…”

“Oh my god,” Stan blinked, “I should not have to explain to you that Totally Spies is not a valid source of information.”

Eddie snorted, and nestled in closer to Stan in the chilling wind.

“Home sweet home…” Richie sighed at the house.

“You don’t live here.” Bev reminded him.

“Shhh….” He wrapped a large hand around her mouth. And then, looking guilty, kissed her forehead. “We’re gonna watch High School Musical now, aren’t we?”

“Only if it’s the second.” Stan commented.

“You just like I Don’t Dance,” Bev laughed.

“Because it’s a cinematic masterpiece.” Stan defended. Eddie snuffled loudly into his chest.

“Shhh… you’ll wake the baby,” Richie reached over. His rough fingers trailed through his hair on the back of his head. “Here, I’ll carry him.”

Eddie bolted up. “I’m up.” He blinked at them, as Bev cracked up, “I’m awake.” They, including Rich, laughed. 

Mike and Ben and Bill finally emerged, once again, from the passenger seats. “You know…” Richie commented, not looking put out by the lack of the carrying thing. Eddie was too heavy for that shit now. “We didn’t sing the obnoxious pop song that is actually ours.” He commented, with a significant look in Stan’s direction.

“Oh my god.” Stan paled. “We’re not doing this. It’s 1 a.m. We’re not doing this.” Eddie held Stan down, and laughed.

Two years ago, Stan grew sick of Richie’s pestering about underaged drinking at that very same karaoke party, and said he could handle alcohol he just didn’t want to drink it. And proved how very wrong he was. He had his first sip, then he had way too many first sips, all in some stupid pissing contest over alcohol. He proceeded to get up on stage, very drunkenly, and sing, what he later admitted was his parent’s wedding song, to his friends.

ABBA’S Waterloo.

They, simply, could not let something that iconic die. The next year, the gang got together and rehearsed an elaborate version of it in that memory’s honor. It, of course, fell apart and was in fact absolute garbage. And, officially branded, their song.

“I’m playing it.” Richie ran inside, across the muggy night and slightly too-long grass, to the Denbrough’s speaker system.

✯EDDIE - 4✯ 

“I wish you dead.” Stan called halfheartedly after him. He looked around at the rest of them as the opening guitar began to spill out into the yard. “How do I get a refund for the amount of love I have invested in Richie Tozier?” His eyes seemed to land on Eddie.

Eddie guwaffed. “You think I have an answer to that question?”

_The history book on the shelf is always repeating itself_

They were too tired to really dance to that one, however: Mike busted out a run on the first verse, and they did sing quite passionately, as they stumbled inside. Ben was draped over Bill’s shoulders. Stan carried Bev on his back. Mike leaned on Eddie’s shoulders. And together, they sang, in a warbly, off key mess:

_Waterloo I was defeated, you won the war_

_Waterloo promise to love you for ever more_

Bev did a half-hearted rendition of their shimmying move than accompanied the tune when they last performed. Bill attempted to copy it. Much to the horror of Georgie, who had appeared to be using the brother-free evening to his advantage to have a sleepover in the sitting room. Not that much sleeping was happening at the moment. He and his friends were staring at the free show. Which apparently reignited the vigor of the loser’s club.

_Waterloo couldn't escape if I wanted to_

_Waterloo knowing my fate is to be with you_

Bev tried to get Georgie to dance with her. He squirmed away. She, graciously, offered her hand to the young, zitty boy with tan skin and curly hair by his side. He, surprisingly, accepted. Bill offered his to the girl on the other side, who looked like she might faint at the offer.

Richie, surprisingly, swooped into Eddie, wrapping an arm around his middle, catching his hand in his.

_Waterloo; finally facing my Waterloo._

Richie crooned off key, breaking off into the twist. Eddie laughed, and did his best attempt at the twist, too.

And all sort-of danced, if you have a very loose definition of the term “dance.” Eddie couldn’t remember a time they had danced this much. He was ready to join Georgie and pout on the couch. He was fucking exhausted. And yet, he danced.

_And how could I ever refuse_

_I feel like I win when I lose_

_WATERLOO_ Bill all but screamed from atop his own coffee table. Eddie, completely exhausted, just laid down on the couch, his head by Georgie's lap. Georgie seemed to think he had several diseases and also a gun, because he shifted even further away. Eddie snorted. 

*~✯~*✯*~✯*

Eddie had no idea how, but he fell asleep for a moment. He read once that certain animals only fell asleep amongst those they had immense trust of. He wondered if that was true. If despite the noise and song and chaos, his body finally felt at peace enough it was just ready to rest. 

“Kids.” Eddie's eyes shot open. Mr. Denbrough had appeared at the top of the steps, wearing a robe and crabby expression. Eddie didn't know what he missed, but the room was quiet and Bill was on Richie's lap on the floor. “This was cute. Charming. Really. Loved it." He smiled. "Please go the fuck to sleep.”

Laughing loudly, sparing Georgie, and apologizing to the Denbroughs, Mike started to shove them up the steps towards the bedrooms and attic.

“God, I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed.” Richie yawned. Eddie was leaning on Mike just to get up the damned stairs.

“I just want all of you to know,” George called out behind them, “and I have no more genuine way to express it: I truly, genuinely, hate all of you.”

“We love you too, Georgie.” Bill replied.

"Do you guys wanna watch-" Bill began, and Stan stepped to the side, went into Bill's bedroom, and slowly shut the door behind him. "Guess not!"

"Wanna watch the inside of my eyelids." Mike replied, already climbing the ladder. Eddie followed in a cloudy muddle: the sort of tired where your body sort of just moves itself and when you're in a new spot, you look around and think 'oh, we're here now.'

“Who’s taking the bean bag?” Richie asked once the attic was breeched. He was hunched over, but staring around at it.

Ben flopped down. “I’ll take it, if you go get blankets.” He held his stomach, which had, as far as Eddie could tell, taken a good deal of bruising in the last few hours.

“And pillows.” Bev added on. “I’ll take the couch in exchange for a good pillow.”

“Fine: moochers. Mooching off my bed.” Richie whined jokingly. Eddie whacked him in the stomach. “C’mon,” he told him, already headed back towards the ladder while he was confident he could make it down. “I’ll help you.”

Eddie realized this was his shot, to find out whatever song he had sang at him, and apparently Noah as well. He might have pried another day. But that day, they just went down the ladder to retrieve supplies in the linen closet, and then back up. Eddie was too tired for anything else at all.

Unfortunately, it did not go as planned.

“ _My bed_ ,” Richie whined pitifully. Eddie looked up. Richie’s bed was currently occupied. Bill was in the middle, Mike on his one side, Benverly as seemingly one unit on the other. “Stan’s probably already asleep in Bill’s.” He reasoned quietly, looking pouty.

“Come on, then,” Eddie sighed, grabbing his wrist and leaving no time for petulance. Despite Eddie’s exhaustion, he dragged him towards the ladder, “we’ll share the couch.”

Richie trudged along behind him, still muttering with irritation. And then, his wrist halted in Eddie’s and he sharply swore.

Eddie turned back to see Richie looking sour, clutching at his head. “Oh,” he winced sympathetically, “ow. Did you stand up?”

“No,” chuckled Richie, overdramatically checking his fingers for blood as he drew them away from his scalp. “I was trying to rearrange my shoulder and miscalculated my height. You were nearly pulling my arm out of my socket.”

Eddie tisked, feeling ruffled and displeased, “you could have told me to let go!”

Richie blinked, smile growing to some-sort of half-amused smirk, “why would I want you to do that?” He asked, eyes cloudy, and unreadable. Eddie had no response to that because he wasn’t even sure what it meant, so he turned, and descended quickly and trying to be quietly.

Eddie knew, logically, that it should have been more awkward. Considering Eddie was seeing somebody and Richie was seeing everybody, there should have been more shifting and awkward apologies. But Richie walked down the stairs, threw his back down along the couch, opening his legs, one foot resting on the floor. He stretched out along the entire thing.Eddie thought about making a fuss, or telling him to curl up on half, like a decent person. It also flickered through Eddie’s mind that he could go sleep in Bill’s bed with Stan. He watched Richie instead, head tossed back on the pillow, arms open at his sides. He was waiting for Eddie, just pretending he wasn’t. Waiting for Eddie’s next move.

Eddie had a boyfriend. But it was _Richie_. So he smacked his stomach lightly, and said “shove over, tosser.” He stepped over Richie, ungracefully. They could share the couch length ways if they slept on their side. Eddie didn’t know which side to sleep on. He felt so distant from Richie recently. He missed his best friend, whether or not he liked it. He felt like turning in towards the back of the couch would just make it worse, but he didn’t know why. He didn’t know when he started over-analyzing everything. He didn’t know why he was at all.

He curled in, facing Richie, the best he could. He clasped his hands together, tucking them under his cheek. Richie had the arm he was laying on cranked up over them, under the pillow they both had a head resting on.

A long moment passed. All Eddie did thinking about breathing, try not to think about breathing, try not to think.

Richie thought Eddie was asleep, and rested his free arm over his waist.

Eddie wasn’t.

* * *

✯RICHIE - 1✯

Richie woke up, and somehow they had shifted overnight. Richie couldn’t let himself be surprised. It was the way he had tried to sleep in the first place. He had his back fully pressed into the couch. Eddie was mostly on top of him, on his stomach. He had one leg between Richie’s. He was sound asleep on his chest.

Richie watched the orange light filter in through the big windows of the Denbrough living room. Without his glasses or contacts, he couldn’t see for shit. It was just a fact of life for Richie Tozier. The walls were yellow. The curtains were pink. These were all things he knew for a fact.

He looked straight up at the ceiling, and tried to tell himself he didn’t know for a fact why he wanted so, so badly, to run his fingers through Eddie’s hair.

He sighed when he realized it just wasn’t of use anymore.

He did know.

In someway, he had always known.

It crashed into his chest, and he took a few slow, deep breaths with shut eyes. It felt rather like someone had jammed a crowbar into his ribcage and was trying to worm it open.

He was such a goddamned idiot.

He let himself, with an aching chest and tired eyes, brush a small kiss to the side of Eddie’s forehead, the only bit he could reach. He rolled over, dislodging Eddie from himself a little bit. He didn’t stir. Richie tried to put his hand on his own side, and went tried to go back to sleep.

It didn’t work, of course. He stayed awake, blinking in the bleary light, as he couldn’t see anything distinctly except for exactly how deeply in love with Eddie Kaspbrak he was.

*~✯~*✯*~✯*

**Author's Note:**

> kiss goodbye any sort of consistency in chapter lengths or flow *MWAH* i've been driving myself crazy trying to figure out how to do it so i'm just *vine sounds* Completely Giving Up! pls still comment on things u like or hate or strike u y'all have no idea how u Fuel My Fire or u can talk to me on tunglr at the same url & other than that...
> 
> just.  
> buckle up.


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